














































Frank A. Marshall 














SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 

ly 

FRANK A. MARSHALL 


THE JOS, D. HAVENS CO. 

Kansas City, Missouri 
1923 



^ S 3 S 2, S’ 

•A 7 Z 7 Sl 
i^z^a 


Copyright, 1923, by Frank A. Marshall 


SEP 17'23 


©C1A7G0073 


''IvC j 




DEDICATION 

To tke 

memory of tlie 
motker I never knew, 
tke Lest friend I kave in Heaven, 
tins kook is reverently, 
and to 

my wife and daugkters, 
tke kest friends I kave on eartk, 
affectionately, 
dedicated. 


Foreword 


y^vHIS collection of verse is printed primarily for my 
friends. I Lave no illusions as to any public 
demand for wLat I Lave to offer and wLicL is offered 
ratLer as a self-expression, in wLicL my friends will, I 
Lope, feel an interest, witLm tLe limits of tLat fnendsLip. 

tj None of tLe verse in tLe present collection was wriften 
later tLan twenty years ago. Most of it was wri#en 
“to please myself, tLe recording of tLose tLougLts wLicL 
come to every man m wLat I like to tLink of as Lis 
“Le#er moments. 


TLere is notLing m it of Masonry, wLicL Las made 
sucL a profound impression upon my life. TLere is notL¬ 
ing m it of DeMolay, wLicL is so close to my Leart. 
TLere is no verse on tLe great war. I did not feel equal to 
tLe production of anotLer “Flander s Field or “Rendez¬ 
vous WitL DeatL , and I felt too deeply to attempt any 
additions to tLe flood of mediocre “war verse" wLicL 
inundated tLe newspapers and magazines. 

ffl If any friend wants to pay me tLe compliment I covet 
most of all Le will say, not tLat tLis or tLat verse is 
“clever" or “good, Lut tLat it expresses tLougLts wLicL 
Lave come to Lim at one time or anotLer, possiLly more 
clearly tLan Le Limself Lad put tLem into words. 




€fl I have done no revising or “polishing.” The verses are 
obviously full of imperfections and crudities. Many of 
them are rough ashlars, which each friend must transform 
into the perfect ashlar of an appropriated ideal. 

I have omifted a mass of the cruder verse of my earlier 
years, those “awful” things which every versifier writes 
in his callow days. I am sure I am entitled to credit for 
that, at any rate. 

^fithout either egotism, mock-modesty or apology, 
therefore, I send forth my verses, with all their faults, 
commending them to the good will of my friends, where 
I would hesitate to expose them to the less indulgent 
reading public. 


FRANK A. MARSHALL 



Table of Contents 


MEDITATION 

Page 

The Random Seed. 3 

Friend and Enemy.4 

Tempest and Sunshine.5 

To My Daughter Vera.6 

My Monument. 7 

The Mansions Six by Two.8 

Memorial Day.10 

Haven’t You Felt That Way? ..12 

Clouds Mean Rainbows.13 

Hollerin’ for the Flag . . .14 

On Hauling Down the Flag in Cuba.16 

Immortality.18 

A Smile and a Tear.22 

Reconciliation.23 

The Seven Ages of Woman.24 

The Three.26 

To an Ephemeris.29 

A Wayside Shrine.30 

The Speeding Years.32 

The First Bom.33 

To My Daughter Vera on Her 18th Birthday .... 34 

The Thornless Rose.35 

To a Huma, a Bird That Never Lights .... 36 

’Twere Kinder Thus..37 

When I Am Gone.38 

In the Days That Are to Be.40 

Thoms and Roses.42 

To My Daughter Mamie.43 





















'TABLE OF CONTENTS 


viii 


Page 

John Brown.44 

My Brown-Eyed Girl.48 

For the Century Box.49 

The Mighty Debt.50 

Innocence.52 

The Finer Ken..53 

Things We Miss.54 

Sir Walter Scott.55 

William Shakespeare.56 

To a Warwickshire Forget-Me-Not.60 

Henley Street in Stratford.61 

Stratford-on-Avon.62 

Just a Rose. . 63 

Farewell, oh Kindly Isles.64 

Edgar Allan Poe.65 

Robert Bums.66 

ASPIRATION 

The Easter Cross.69 

“Only God Cares?”.70 

Faith.71 

Altruism.72 

Religion Undefiled.74 

Eva Marshall Shontz.76 

Compensation.77 

A Dream of Calvary.78 

God From Three Hills.81 

Be Thou Bethlehem, My Soul.82 

Frances E. Willard.84 

A Christmas Recessional.86 

Back to Galilee.88 

May We Be Wise, Oh Lord.91 

Easter..92 






























'TABLE OF CONTENTS ix 

Page 

THE CHILD HEART 

A Boy and a Girl.95 

The Father’s Hand.96 

The Tie-Back Apron and Curls.98 

The Child Heart.100 

The Man Who Is 12 Years Old.101 

The All-Aboard Train.102 

Wouldn’t it Be Queer?.104 

Going Bye Bye.106 

Little Girl Land.108 

To a Child.Ill 

THE SONG OF SONGS 

Two Lovers .115 

My Little Firelight Sweetheart.116 

The Mercenary.118 

Love’s One December.119 

Love’s Hoarding.120 

You and I.122 

Shore and Tide.123 

Pickin’ Dandylines.124 

The Land of Flame.126 

My Thanksgiving.128 

When You Come Home.129 

The Wordless Song.130 

Misunderstanding.132 

My Spring.134 

God Keep You.135 

Thanksgiving.136 

Faith—Hope—You.137 

























X 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 



Page 

The Man of My Dreams .... 

138 

The Change of Years. 

. 139 

Love’s Last Hour. 

140 

My Little All. 

. 142 

Sanctity. 

144 

Love’s Immutable. 

. 145 

Consolation. 

146 

My Longing. 

. 147 

The Infinite Shadow. 

148 

Double'n Tender. 

. 150 

Two Loves. 

152 

A Group of Songs. 

. 153-154 

Just as You Used to Do .... 

155 

A Poem and an Answer. 

. 156 

Sunshine and Shadow. 

157 

Where We Missed the Way . 

. 158 

The Day We Said Goodbye .... 

160 

The Wonderful Something . 

. 161 

If I Could Just Tell You I Cared . 

162 

In the Shadow of the Pines . 

. 163-164 

The Little and the Large .... 

165 

The Mountain Call. 

. 166 

California. 

167 

At Emma Crawford’s Grave . . . 

. 168 

The Lesson of the Lowly .... 

170 

Lines to a Burro. 

. 171 

The Pure in Heart. 

172 

To a Fish on a Hook. 

. 173 

The Story of the Winds. 

. 175-176 

The North Wind. 

. 177 

The South Wind. 

. 178 

The East Wind. 

. 179 

The West Wind. 

180 

Sunshine Farther on. 

. 181 














TABLE OF CONTENTS xi 

Page 

The Cycle of the Hills.182 

Mountain Waters.185 

My First Mountain Trout.186 

Shadow and Sun.187 

Mountain Rest.188 

To a Cactus.191 

Ascension.192 

My Little Mountain Stream.193 

A Lesson.196 

Peak Upon Peak.197 

Pike’s Peak.198 

To a Trout Fly.201 

The Chipmunks.202 

My Heart a Harp Becomes.204 

Moonlight on the Sea.205 

The Higher Call.206 

Sea Children.210 

My Soul Doth Grow in Thee.211 

BLACK KEY ETUDES 

De Lawd’ll See Yo’Froo.215 

Mah Littles’.216 

Wen De Fishes Quits A-Nibblin’.218 

De Lawd’s Wuhk.219 

The Lord Had a Job for Me.220 

Roastin’ Eahs an' Hoecakes.221 

Li’l Lincoln.222 

Dey’s Only Two o’ Us.224 

Wen De Hook Kotch in a Tree.225 

An Ethiopian Rubaiyat.226 

Whur’s De Sense?.228 

Twixt De Fish Hook an’ De Pan.229 

Mighty Per’lous. . 230 

Sonnets From the Ethiopian.232 


















xii 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


Page 

SONGS IN PROSE 

The Blossoming Cross.239 

The Ideal of the Unkissed Face.241 

The Hanging.243 

Asters.246 

Castle Spite.248 

The Bravest of the Brave.253 

The Autobiography of a Bluebird.261 








JVLeaitation 





The Random Seed 


X NTO the soil, almost with heedless hand 
I dropped an idle seed—a little act 
Of gentleness in passing. I forget 
If ’twas a cup of water that I gave 
To one who fainted on a stony way; 

Or whether ’twas a word of cheer I spoke 
To one who languished in a dreary hour; 

Or just a murmured pity or a smile, 

A helpful handclasp in the busy throng— 

Some little bugle call to souls to hope 
And patience, courage, faith to try again. 

I sowed and passed and after many years— 
Or was it straightway?—when I came again 
That way, I found the random seed had flowered 
And fruited to a gracious yield. And yet 
It may have been in some far land, beyond 
The sunset that I journeyed toward that day 
Across the haze of hills to which I stretched 
My hands in greeting—Nay, I only know 
But this: I thirsted and a wayside cup 
Was pressed unto mine eager lips. I drank. 

I hungered and a loaf was spread. I ate 
And rose and went renewed. A steadfast hand 
Held mine in parting for a little space; 

A kindly voice asked God to guide my steps. 



4 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Friend and Enemy 


friend was perfect in my sight 
* And all he did was done aright. 

I saw in him no flaw or blot. 

When men assailed him I was hot 
His dear perfections to defend, 

Because he was my trusted friend. 

Mine enemy was wholly bad. 

I saw each weakness that he had; 

I wondered what men saw to praise 
And heard approval with amaze. 

No worth or goodness could I see, 
Because he was mine enemy. 

Yet I was wrong, for after all 
In him I thought was wholly small 
I found so many greatnesses; 

I found so much of littleness 
In him who had my perfect trust 
That time has made my judgments just. 

And now with keener eyes I see 
That neither friend nor enemy 
Is wholly good or wholly ill. 

For both are men and human still. 

In both is much the years shall prove 
That we should hate—but more to love. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


6 


Tempest and Sunshine 


<3 


[HE tempest brooded o'er my head; 
My stars paled one by one; 

But he who stood beside me said: 

“How fair God’s gracious sun!” 

For me the lurid lightnings played 
And rending thunders rolled. 

His heart no beating storm dismayed 
And all his day was gold. 


My singing soul was gay and glad 
And sweet with fragrant flowers. 

But one beside me, wan and sad, 

Plucked only withered hours. 

His dreams no bright Tomorrow knew; 

No rainbow spanned his way. 

I gazed on Hope's eternal blue 
And all his sky was gray. 

And so within ourselves we find 
Our deserts and our palms; 

The seas that smile; the storm that blind; 

Our tempests and our calms. 

My night may be another’s day; 

My joy a pain he knows; 

His bleak December be my May; 

My wilderness his rose. 



6 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


To My Daughter Vera 


© 


HERE’S a vacant chair at the table 
The circle is incomplete; 

And daddy misses the patter 
Of his grown-up baby’s feet. 

The hours are strangely silent; 

Something is gone from the day 
And daddy is strangely lonesome 
When a brown-eyed girl’s away. 


But soon the broken circle 
Will be as it was of old; 

And arms no longer empty 

Their old sweet burden hold. 

The hours now strangely silent 

And the house now strangely drear 
Will sing with the olden music 

When a brown-eyed girl is here. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


7 


My Monument 


© UILD not remembrant marble o'er my dust 

Nor bronze nor granite, brave with fretted gold— 
The fickle heaps that fall to traitor mold 
In one short century, betraying trust 
And Love's commiting tears, while Time’s wild lust 
For leveling feeds on. Nay, when the cold 
Relentless arms of Death shall softly fold 
About me and the call hath come I must 
Obey, and if your tenderness shall bid 
You fashion any monument save tears, 

Let violets guard me or the rose defy 

The ages. Let me spend them sweetly hid 
By loyal petals that shall tell the years 
All uncorroded, faithful as the sky. 



8 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Mansions Six by Two 


0 


k OWN there in the vale are the hovels, 
The city of never a home. 

Up there on the hill is Divesville, 

With many a fretted dome. 

And between them lieth another, 

Where never is joy or rue; 

Where every citizen dwelleth 
In a Mansion Six by Two. 


And oft from the huts of Lazarus Town 
And the palaces there on the hill 
There goeth a prayer for the peace out there 
Where every pain is still— 

The City of God’s White Acres, 

Where the day is ever glad, 

Where never a heart-storm beateth 
And never a heart is sad. 


And ever the wan processions 

That wind thro’ the squalid street 
Or trail their state thro’ the palace gate 
In the Middlewise City meet. 

The sleepers from rags and riches 

And the pain and the joy they knew 
Rest side by side together 

In their Mansions Six by Two. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


9 


And never the rich man spurneth 
Nor the poor man envies again. 

And whoever goes down the long, white rows 
Hears naught of the world’s complain. 
For none of the old distinctions 

That the hut and the palace guard 
Makes the couch of Dives softer 
Or the bed of Lazarus hard. 

And who shall say which is sweeter, 

When the ache of the heart is gone— 
The rest that sleeps ’neath the marble heaps 
Or the rest of the simple stone? 

For the same great Peace is on them, 

Out there in the shine and the dew, 
Since they left the vale and the hillside 
For the Mansions Six by Two. 


10 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Memorial Day 


i^\HE roar of battle sinks to summer winds; 

\ / And roses, heaped in high, sweet mounds, tell 
where 

Our sacred dead are slumbering. From palm 
And blue grass to the still white Northern snows, 
From golden West to where the savage sea 
Breaks on the Eastern shore, we raise the song 
Of unforgetting, lay upon each tear-wet shrine 
Remembrant wreaths. Across a chasm bridged 
With handclasps—nay, across a line that is 
No more, that Lee and Wheeler blotted out— 

We hymn the glory of the blue and them 
That battled for the cause that was to lose; 

And here about a common altar kneel 
And drape it with the standard that is red 
With all the blood that ran down to the sea, 

As blue as Southern skies and stainless white 
As Lincoln’s soul; an ensign that doth know 
One sword, one land, one starward course, one faith 
And field, one vast, puissant, pure desire. 


Great God of Battles, may we learn this hour 
The lessons of Thy peace; that peace is red 
With blood if monumental columns point 
Like fingers to a nation’s shame; if Law 
And Justice, Thy divine equality, 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


11 


Fold not their aegis wings about the weak 
As well as high, the low as well as great; 

If any traitor heart is not attuned 

Unto the marching drumbeats of the Right, 

And if on every hill we shall not see 
Again the campfires of our hero dead. 

Great God of Peace, teach us Thy message writ 
In War’s red letters—that the sword is stained 
That sleeps within its scabbard when the strong 
Oppresses; that the banner shall be vile 
That waves not over every battlefield 
Where Freedom calls, storms not the battlements 
Of Wrong, but idly floats while one sad slave 
Doth reach his chains up toward its starry folds. 

Thus shall we consecrate the heritage 
These sacred sleepers left. Thus shall we show 
That we were worthy of the blood they shed. 

Thus shall we make the dead more dearly brave; 
Thus shall their death make freemen of us all. 


12 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Haven’t You Felt That Way? 


Yp^AVEN’T you felt it was hardly worth while 
" To try to live up to your best; 

And haven’t you smiled a cynical smile— 

And something way down in your breast 
Whispered Life had a prize that was richer than gold 
And sweeter than fame or display? 

And the faith that had slipped took a brand new 
hold— 

Haven’t you, haven’t you felt that way? 

And hasn’t a peace come near that was far 

And called you to strive toward it still; 

And haven’t you turned your face to a star 
And haven’t you said “I will!” 

And weren’t you stronger and didn’t you find 
The world was better and didn’t it pay 
To be brave and patient and cheery and kind— 
Haven’t you, haven’t you felt that way? 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


13 


Clouds Mean Rainbows 


X DO not long for cloudlessness. That sky 

That never frowned were all too bright to bear. 
Nay, I should miss the higher joy, the rare 
Keen bliss of pain, if peradventure I 
Might dwell in days that laughed eternally. 

Satiety hath naught to feed on. Were 
Each longing filled, each aspiration dear 
Assured, no smile without companion sigh, 

No ill would beckon toward perfected good. 

For clouds mean rain and fair, bright after-shines 
And all mean rainbows. So I would not hide 
My heart from any storms that darkly brood. 
For mine unfearing faith serene divines 
That in the storm Hope’s rainbow doth abide. 



14 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Hollerin’ for the Flag 


V<E never saw a battle, 

\ _X Nor heard the muskets rattle; 

He never rustled hardtack nor drank 
from a canteen. 

He never smelled of powder, 

But Teddy wasn’t prouder 
Of the Marching Constitution than this patriot I 


And maybe he’s a j ingo, 

But he talks a cheery lingo 
And tho' he’s not a soldier, yet he loves a starry rag; 
He doesn’t do much boasting, 

But you never hear him roasting, 

For his song is “Yankee Doodle” and he hollers for the 
flag. 

His father was at Shiloh 
And for all that I know 

His grandad plugged a redcoat back there at Lundy’s 
Lane; 

His boy fell near Manila, 

Where the Spaniard’s proud flotilla 
Was sent to come-the-kingdom, just remembering of the 
Maine. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


15 


But it only makes him prouder 
And he only sings the louder 
When he gazes on a “kodak” of the lad upon his nag; 
There’s blood upon the image— 

In a nasty Moro scrimmage— 

But that boy sang “Yankee Doodle” and he hollered 
for the flag. 

And it’s that boy’s dad’s opinion 
That we should have dominion 
From the isthmus to the Arctic; from Long Island to 
Luzon; 

From Maine to Mauna Loa; 

And maybe then Samoa; 

From the Eskimos to Cuba; from Alaska to San Juan. 

Well, maybe he’s a jingo, 

But he talks a nervy lingo 
And jingo beats the colic and a-chewing of the rag. 
And I’d rather have a bluffer 
Than a belly-achin’ duffer 

That’s afraid of “Yankee Doodle” and to holler for the 
flag. 


16 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


On Hauling Down the Flag 
in Cuba 


© 


[O Cuba’s tattered legions 
A starry banner came, 

To lend the glory-lustre 

Of the Anglo-Saxon name. 

Thro’ the tangled tropic jungle, 

Up the red heights of San Juan, 
Thro’ the wild machete charges 
With Maceo leading on; 

In the hell-hot, trap-like trenches, 

At the deadly trocha bars, 

In the coward forest ambush, 

At the bivouac ’neath the stars, 
With the courage of a Wheeler 
And the splendor of a Schley, 

It nerved in every conflict 
And it kindled every eye. 

But a nobler fame was written 
On the scroll of its renown; 

And it never floated higher 

Than the day we hauled it down. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


17 


II 

When we laid a new republic 
At Cuba’s chainless feet 

We taught the pirate nations 
All the grandness of retreat; 

That our standard never fluttered 
O’er the sordid decks of gain; 

That the war-wine lust of empire 
Never dimmed it with a stain. 

The crimson stands for valor 

And the blood the fathers shed; 

The blue for skies that beckon 
And are smiling overhead; 

The white is for the pureness 
Of a people’s fine desires; 

And all for grand ideals 

And the stars for altar fires. 

But the brave were never braver 
Nor the stars more like a crown, 

Nor the white and azure purer 

Than the day we hauled it down. 


18 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Immortality 


i^vHE favored of the muses held dispute 

On Immortality and for decision wrought 
Each one a masterpiece. 


The Orator 

With tongue of fire pronounced a speech 
That stirred the people’s souls and multitudes 
Were swayed like waving grain before the wind. 
“I shall not die!” he proudly cried; “for long 
As hearts shall beat my words will make them 
thrill.” 


The Painter dipped his brushes in his heart; 
He stood beside the deathbed of the day 
And cradle of the Spring and stole the tints 
Of skies and flowers; the shine upon the brook, 
The shadows on the sea; the thousand tones 
That glow within the gray dissolving dawn; 

The panorama of the night; the blaze 
Of noon; the hues of beauty; all the fires 
That burn upon the altar of the soul; 

Until his canvas breathed with throbbing life 
His genius did endow it with. “When shall 
My colors fade?’’ he proudly asked. ‘‘ When songs 
Have died away and words have been forgot 
My scene shall live with Art’s undying life.” 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


19 


The Sculptor clave the marble bars away 
And Beauty that was prisoned there arose 
And came into the sunlight, glorious, 

While from her eyes the soul the artist gave 
Spake nobly forth. The very tints of life 
Glowed palpitant about her shining form. 

’"’What shall outlast the stone?” the artist cried, 
‘‘To which I give the deathlessness 
Of touch?” 

And then the Singer swept the lyre 
And forth there came a flood of concords sweet, 
Such swelling melodies, such grand refrains, 

As Orpheus might have drawn that mighty time 
When fabled tears were on the Furies’ cheeks. 
And when the Singer’s voice was stilled it seemed 
The marble was but stone, already dimmed 
The imaged scene, forgotten eloquence. 

And then the Poet wrote a song of home 
And hearth-stones; sang of native land and high 
Protecting gods; of valor that doth bare 
Its breast to foes and sheds its utter drops 
Upon invading spears. Not high on shafts 
Of marble nor on radiant canvases 
Nor in the strings of lyres his genius lived; 

But deep within the people’s love he writ 
His words—For thrones may fall and colors fade 
And songs are silent when the lips are dumb 
And marble crumbles into mother dust; 

But human hearts live on immortally. 


20 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


And when upon the burning words of Orator, 
Upon the song and scene and speaking form, 
There fell the cataclysm of the years 
It came to pass, one far, millennial day. 

That great savants, with firman from some lord 
Were delving, spectacled, amid the lees 
Of empires dead three thousand years agone; 
Unearthing walls and streets and palaces 
Beneath the debris of a vanished world. 

And to the light they brought a runic scroll 
That told how once a mighty Orator 
Had swept the hearts of that forgotten race 
With flaming speech. But of his name 
The broken record held no trace and all 
His immortality was writ in dust. 

And wider still they pried apart the lips 
Of stony secrets, deep into the very maw 
Of Time, that swallowed up those fabled days. 
And there beside a crumbling votive lyre, 

That once had hung upon a temple wall, 

Some Parthenon to muses dedicate, 

A tablet told in curious characters 
The legend of a Singer—“He was mate 
To Orpheus," ran the story at the end. 
“Unfortunate!" the wise ones murmured then, 
“We know no more;" and so they laid beside 
Their other relics lyre and tablet, marked: 

“An unknown Singer." 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


21 


Farther on they found 
Upon the temple wall a faded scene, 

All dim and dull and broken, lustreless, 

The last poor remnant of a masterpiece. 

Where now the tints and tones that once had glowed 
Resplendent in that long forgotten day? 

Where now the sea and flower and fleece of cloud 
And wondrous fire of soul ? The wise ones sighed. 
They could not even take it o’er the waves, 

To show to learned societies. 

And last, 

As deeper still they delved and reached what once 
Had been a temple floor, a buried form 
Was found, all sadly marred and piteous 
In ruin; hinting in its broken limbs, 

Disfigured, shapeless, what it once had been; 

And telling still more eloquently now 
The tale of what it was. And this was all 
That now remained of all the Sculptor’s art, 

His dream of fame undying. All his hopes 
Had come to this sad dust, this broken thing. 

His very name was bandied mouth to mouth 
In hot disputes that served to liven tedium 
Of digging. Some contented Phidias; 

Some said Milo; some Praxiteles. 

And while they argued there amid the dregs 
A swarthy workman in the trenches hummed 
The Poet’s song. 


22 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


A Smile and a Tear 


O 


|NLY a word that was hard and cold; 

The glance of a scornful eye; 

A hand withheld to grasp its gold; 

The pride of a station high; 

But a heart on courage lost its hold 
And hope died out of a sky. 


Only a touch of the hand one day; 

A smile in an hour of care; 

A word that cost so little to say— 
But the whole glad day was fair; 
A doubting heart had learned to pray 
And a cross was lighter to bear. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


23 


Reconciliation 


O NLY a word and the sun is dimmed; 
Only a look and the day is drear; 
Only a kiss that we wanly miss— 

So little will bring a tear! 

Only a glance and the day is glad; 

Only a word brings heaven near; 
And our brimming eyes see Paradise— 
So little will bring—a tear! 



24 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Seven Ages of Women 


a 


ND first the babe, with wide, unseeing eyes, 
And rose-leaf hands that grip two people's 
hearts, 

With love’s resistless clutch of steel. And then 
The school-girl with her saucy braids of brown 
And stiff, white apron prim, half way betwixt 
The morn and noon, when Life is in the leaf 
And only waits the hour when it shall bloom. 


And then the maiden’s dawning womanhood, 
Her mother rediviva, dreaming dreams 
That pink her cheeks and set this desert world 
A-bloom with roses dewed with happy tears; 

A garden where she wanders hand in hand 
With him whose name she never dares to breathe 
Save to her pillow. 

Then the wife, the dream 
Come true in roses turned to immortelles 
And bridal gown her queenhood’s royal robes. 

And then the mother—braids and books 
again 

And manly, eager faces, where she sees 
Her hand-mate born anew. 

Then widow’s weeds, 
The nestlings gone to build with busy joy 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


25 


Life’s immemorial round of homes. Mayhap 
One stays who loves her more than love and stands 
Beside her faithful till the lonely heart 
Shall beat in Paradise. 

“Last scene of all,” 

Is twilight, grandam with her dear white hair 
And munching gums, her wrinkled face ashine, 
With lips that mumble tales of other times, 

The wheel at Childhood’s cog again, thin hands 
Outstretched and eager for the clasp 
That Death had loosened in the long ago 
And Life in pity soon shall reunite. 



26 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Three 


X SAW Three walking and of all I loved 
The Second best, the likest unto me. 

The First had fellowship with brutes and on 
His brow was stamped the brand of hate and sin. 
No pain of penitence was in his eyes. 

No dream of higher things was in his heart. 

He knew no law but Self and never gazed 
Above the mire. With ravening hand he struck 
His climbing comrade down and snatched the prize 
Of life at cost of others’ grief. He drained 
The cup of pleasure with a swinish zest, 

Despite his brothers' thirst, whom from the feast 
He dashed aside with gnashing, snarling greed. 

I could not love this First, that never knew 
A throb of softness nor the kindly pang 
Of pity—even though I saw in him 
What once I was—for he was Yesterday. 

The Third was nobler than the highest hope 
Of all I longed to be. Upon his head 
There fell the light of utter good. He went 
Serene and whitely in a way that had 
No thorns or stumbling. With a gentle hand 
He helped each climber to a higher place 
And with compassion’s tender touch he balmed 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


27 


The wounds of falling. In his heart there lived 
No thought of ill, for all desire was gone 
And only Love’s divine absolving left, 

That pardoned every weaker’s fault. He saw 
The lower, yet he chose the higher path, 

And longed to see all feet set fast therein. 

He trod the earth, yet looked upon the sky. 

And this bright, purged, winged walker was 
Tomorrow—what I might be but was not. 

But ah, the Second! How my heart went out 
To him! He walked an upward path, yet oft 
He fell, but rose a little higher up 
For every fall. Upon his cheeks were many tears, 
The tears of sorrow for the ill he did. 

Yet still he evil wrought, but in his eyes 
I saw the pain of weakness; in his heart 
I heard a prayer for strength. He fixed his gaze 
Upon the stars, yet oft his glances roved 
And wavered to the earth. And many times 
He ate the bitter ashen fruit, when sweet 
Was near at hand; and many chose the road 
To needless pain when blossomed pathways 
stretched 

Before. And so he staggered, stumbled, fell 
And rose and groped and clung and climbed and 
loved 

And hated, sighed and smiled and cursed and 
prayed 

And sinned and sobbed and suffered and aspired. 
And him I knew for what I am—Today. 


28 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


And of these Three, the Angel, Animal 
And Man, I loved the Man, whose body held 
Him close to earth, whose soul was kin to spheres 
And brother to the sun; who longed to do 
The right, yet weakly did the wrong instead; 

Who did not choose to beat the lower air 
But plumed the pinions of his spirit for 
The upper flights; who looked through tears of pain 
Upon the baser things he did and fought himself 
On many battlefields, wherefrom he brought 
The trophies of his conquest when he triumphed. 
Him I could not help but love because 
His back was toward the days that were, his face 
Set toward the dream of years that were to be. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


29 


To An Ephemeris 


X PITY thee, thou flickering, spangled mite, 
But not because thy little day is done 
So soon or that thy little race is run 
Between the dawn and finis of the night. 

Nay, rather do I envy thee the white 

Resplendence of a day whereon the sun 
Doth never set until the goal is won 
Or lost. I pity thee because the fight 
Doth last so long; because thy load of life 
Is heavy as the ages, for its summons calls 
No less resistlessly to men than thee. 

To live is peace and pain and joy and strife; 
For thou art hoary when the twilight falls 
And men live long as ephemeridae. 



30 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


A Wayside Shrine 


X STAND upon the portal of a shrine. 

I may not look upon its inner mysteries. 

Its Holies’ Holy ever must be veiled 
From eyes unlawful—not for them to see 
The worship of that sanctuary reared— 

A happy home—nor rites where cherubim 
Are ministers. But this were lawful sure: 

To stay without the threshold here and look 
With all the pain of wistfulness and all 
The joy of gratitude, that if to one 
Hath been denied to kneel, another may; 

To catch one breath from censers sweet 
From veiled chambers and to hear the rush 
Of wings my spirit eye doth see, as soft 
They fold above that Mercy Seat. Ah, what 
Were all the storms of earth beside that calm? 
What breakers shall assail the citadel 
Of that security ? What foes shall scale 
The ramparts of that sureness? Nay, what were 
The discords of the world unto the song 
Of utter concord in that low refrain? 

What all the ills and frets of Life beside 
That peace? What poverty when set against 
That Croesus store of riches that doth make 
The wealth of all the mountains beggary. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


31 


And thou, oh, worshipper, thou wilt let me 
kneel 

One little while upon the outskirts here 
Of this thy joy? Nay, I will not profane 
Nor draw too near—just bow my spirit’s head 
And worship from afar and know me blest 
That I have touched'the angel’s hem and felt 
The lightest feather of a wing. Thou wilt 
Not grudge one breath, when thou hast all the 
myrrh 

Of one whole temple. Thou wilt not withhold 
From all thy harvest-plenty one stray sheaf; 

From all thy garnered waters one cool cup. 
Perchance thy balm of love and peace may heal 
A wounded heart, one sore and spent in Life’s 
Hot battle; and thy beckoning harbor light 
May cheer a mariner that sails a sea 
That hath no stars. So, kneeling here as at 
Some wayside shrine along his stony life 
He shall arise, refreshed for worshipping, 

Renewed and girded for the coming wars 
That call him; guided o’er the breakered waste 
By harbor gleams that shine for thee. And he 
Shall go his way with prayers within his heart 
That all God’s peace may dwell about that shrine; 
The white wings of His brooding love and grace 
Be folded round it e’er and ever more 


32 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Speeding Years 


© 


ACK there when Life was in the callow, You 
And Happiness were waiting far ahead, 

Beyond the hills where daytime died to red 
Ere yet the stars lit up the twinkling blue. 

And when I prayed the days, as fancy flew 

On eager pinions, would, like to my fancies, 
spread 

Their wings and bear me with them, comforted, 
With sweet possession, still, although they knew 
Their slowness mocked my hope’s impatient tears, 
They maddened me with idle lingerings. 

But now, when You and Happiness are gone, 

And when I hoard these last few miser years, 
And pray for leaden feet instead of wings, 

They speed like swallows, ever swifter on. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


33 


The First Born 


9 

The 

The 

And 


ROSE and the sunshine were married one day 

By the shore of a meadow sea. 

wedding words were the songs of the birds 

And the priest was a rambling bee. 

lover sun touched a lifted face 

As fair as the dew-wet morn; 

as the rose blushed red at the things he said 

The world’s first kiss was born. 


A hope and a fear were wed one day 
By the grave of a happy hour. 

A dead faith’s knell was the marriage bell 
And the ring was a withered flower. 
But one of them died and one was left 
To live thro’ the days forlorn. 

And there by the side of a hope that died 
The world’s first tear was born. 


A dream and a duty were wed one day 
In the street of a busy mart. 

The dream held a rose from the garden that grows 
In the Land of the Loyal Heart. 

But Duty looked on up a cross-crowned hill, 

The cross of the sanctified thorn; 

And there by the bier of a dream that was dear 
The world’s first smile was born. 



34 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


To My Daughter Vera on Her 
18 th Birthday 


Y TS softly as the velvet feet of Time 

3_You part the veil that curtains off the days 

The girl hath lived from those mysterious ways 
A woman walks. You hear, as some far chime 
That chants the music of a perfect rhyme, 

The notes that Life, like Pan the piper, plays 
Upon his tuneful hills, all laureled with his bays. 
God grant that in that harmony, sublime 
As heaven’s choirs can sing, the minor bars 
Of pain, the sad discords of tears, be few. 

God send that every dream whose radiant wing 

Doth deck the day with suns, the night with stars, 
And means your highest good, come sweetly true— 
For God and fathers wish the self-same thing. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


35 


The Thornless Rose 


y|\EN call thee cruel, Death; full many things 
I never thought thou wert—a sickle keen, 
That reaps the grain of promise in the green; 
The bitterest of the pathways thousand stings; 

A courier, at the shadow of whose wings 

The nectar cup is dropped, the fairest scene 
Straight quitted for the land that lies between 
Four narrow walls. Nay, at thy summonings 
All fields shall ripen, and the feast be done. 

I’ll say goodnight, as sable curtains close 
Behind me and I’ll slumber till the morn. 

Of all blooms, Death, thou art the gentlest one, 
The last soft petal of Life’s reddest rose, 

From which thy mercy plucks the final thorn. 



36 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


To a Huma, a Bird that 
Never Lights 


a 


’NTIRING one, that never knoweth shore, 
But sweeps the air with never-folding wing, 
My fate is fellow to thy wandering. 

My soul doth beat the days forevermore 
With ne’er a resting strand. I see before 

Green, beckoning isles—the hopes to which I 
cling; 

About me taunting havens, echoing 
With music of the peace I missed. Yet o’er 
My sea there shines one dimless star, 

A love that is mine island and my palm, 

Where weary-pinioned years shall rest at last. 
And tho’ that fronded hour be near or far, 
The grateful tears that sanctify its calm 
Shall rainbow all the storms thro’ which I 
passed. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


37 


’Twere Kinder Thus 




LAS, that o’er each song should rise 
A sob of grief or pain; 

That thro’ our soaring melodies 
Should run Life’s minor strain. 


My brother groans beneath a cross 
That bears him to the earth; 

How shall I mock his bitter loss 
With selfish gain of mirth? 

And when his sky, serene and clear, 
Doth never frown with gray, 

How shall I dim with mine own tear 
The brightness of his day? 

Nay, rather let my pity still 
The songs that in me stir; 

Lest joys that my heart’s chalice fill 
Shall make his emptier. 

And rather let me hide from him 
The cry that mocks his bliss; 

Lest mine unlighted life shall dim 
The sunshine that is his. 



38 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


When I Am Gone 


(0 


ILL grieving friends, when I am cold 
Beside my narrow bedside stand 
And softly touch the withered hand 
And speak the name I bore of old, 

When I am cold? 


Will loving feet, when I am dead, 

At fond affection’s bidding come 
And follow to its narrow home 
My silent form, with gentle tread, 
When I am dead? 


Will tender hands, when I am gone, 
Caress the form so silent now, 

And softly touch the marble brow 
And deck with flowers my simple stone, 
When I am gone? 

Will kindly lips, when life is flown, 
Recall the olden, happy days 
And cover all my faults with praise 
And tell the little good alone, 

When life is flown? 

Oh, friends of mine, while I am here 
Imprint your kiss upon my brow; 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


39 


I need your true affection now; 

Oh, let me feel your presence near 
While I am here. 

Let loving feet, while shines the day. 

Keep faithful march beside mine own; 
Nor let me go my way alone; 

Attend me as I tread the way, 

While shines the day. 

Oh, do not wait till I am gone 

But speak the cheering word today; 
And chide me when I go astray. 

I cannot hear the thrilling tone 
When I am gone! 



40 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


In the Days That Are to Be 


X 


N the days that are to be— 

Ah, the happiness that lies 
Before mine eager wistful eyes; 

And the laden boughs I see 
Bending from Life’s fruited tree; 

And through a veil of falling leaves 
Hope can see the garnered sheaves 

At the ripening and the gathering in the 
days that are to be. 


I do not know; I cannot see 
Why ’tis not mine to reap today, 

Nor when the sickle I shall lay 
To what I sow. Enough for me 
That Springtime’s generous prophecy 
Whispers naught of frosts that kill, 

But sings of Autumn’s fullness still 

And Hope the only reaper in the days that 
are to be. 


Long years ago, across the sea 
I sent rich, laden barks away; 

And o’er the waste of waves today 
From spicy isles there comes to me 
Sweet news from each fond argosy. 
The sea is white with homing sails, 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


41 


Escaping wrecking reefs and gales 

And all my hopes are anchored— in the 
days that are to be. 

And yet there’s something whispers me 
My faith doth mount on wings too strong; 

My hope doth sing too glad a song; 

That killing frost and angry sea 
Shall blight and wreck what tenderly 
I sowed and sent. And yet, befall 
What may, I know not all, not all 

My dreams shall be delusions, in the days 
that are to be. 

And so, if one glad prophecy 
Comes at the great fulfillment true; 

In midnight skies one rift of blue; 

If from the swelling symphony 
Hope chanted, choir-like, unto me, 

I catch one sweet and deathless air, 

One sheaf I reap, one voyage fair, 

I’ll ask no fuller favor in the days that 
are to be. 


42 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Thoms and Roses 


’AY not of Winter blasts they chant a dirge, 
But that they sing the birth-song of the 
flowers. 

Say not that Autumn’s falling leaves but shroud 
The Summer dead, but see beneath the mold 
The violets raise their faces to the sun. 

My faith finds not the skeleton beneath 
The Dying Beautiful, that harbingers 
Another birth; but says the midnight soon 
Shall wear the robes of dawn and in the arms 
Of Death the Infant Life shall warmly lie. 


Why see the stones and brambles of a path 
The star-blooms border? Why the earth at all, 
When asters grow in all the garden-sky? 

For even as the tempests follow calms 
The harbor light doth gild the blackest sea. 

A song is sweeter than a sigh and Life 
Is wondrous musical. A morning breaks 
On every night. Why say: “The dark will fall’ 
And not: “The days shall shine .upon me when 
This gloom hath faded?”—Every thorn 
Grows on a rose whose least caressing heals 
A hundred stings. In all the universe 
There is no fear that hath no hope, no wound 
Unkissed. For Nature is Samaritan 
And passeth none that needs the oil and wine. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


43 


To My Daughter Mamie 


H THOUGHT of one dear head of brown, apart 
From all the rest; of eyes of tender gray 
That look across the stretching miles and say 
The things that feed a father’s hungering heart. 

A thought of one sweet face that seems to start 
From every page I turn each long, long day. 

A thought of that glad hour, not far away, 
When I shall know how passing dear thou art 
In empty arms that only thou canst fill. 

A thought of two dear hands that sweep the strings 
Of Life’s sweet harp and soon shall rest in mine. 

A thought of thoughts that hold Life’s 
sweetest thrill— 

A father’s thoughts, that have no numberings. 
These, darling, are this day your Valentine. 



44 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


John Brown 


(Note:—While I cannot say that I have always felt as strongly as these lines 
may indicate, yet they seem to me to express thoughts that belong to all time 
and not merely to the tragedy of Harper's Ferry and Charles Town.) 


e REATdeaths are but the waiting of the Lord to say: 
“Thus far!” 

A nation’s scourging, mercy that hath been too 
sorely tried; 

The cannon’s roar the rumbling of His awful judgement 
car. 

And when upon the gibbet some grand John Brown 
hath died 

God says men no longer His patience shall deride, 
And the ensigns of His vengeance are the bloody flags 
of War. 


Sometimes we cannot fathom the marvels of our Lord; 

Sometimes our faith doth falter for the coming of 
a Sign, 

When thro’ the battle-thunders we hear no Wonder- 
word; 

When we see the Evil charging the Good’s 
devoted line 

And no reinforcements answer our cry for aid 
Divine, 

And Wrong doth seem to conquer, the Right put to the 
sword. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


45 


But shame is oft a coronet, the scaffold oft a throne; 

And behind the lonely hero in the vanguard of the 
fight 

Are unseen hands that rescue the flag he waved alone. 

For martyrs are the sentinels on the picket line 
of Right; 

And rapt, prophetic vision, that seeth thro’ the 
night, 

Could see at Harper’s Ferry that Gettysburg was won. 

And as that later Christus, like the great Judean, hung 

Upon a second Calvary, the scaffold of a race. 

To all the winds of evil the flag of triumph flung, 

It seemed that Good was blotted from the firma¬ 
ments of grace, 

That Liberty was crucified and God had hid His 
face; 

For Hell was decked with banners on the day John 
Brown was hung. 

Such deaths are only signals for the firing of the gun 

That shall level all the ramparts of the Lord 
Almighty’s foes; 

For His vengeance is a chalice; when the last red wrong 
is done, 

When the utter tear hath fallen, then the chalice 
overflows. 

Not forever sleeps His patience and the dying 
martyr knows 

That on the bloody shackle shines the golden Freedom- 
sun. 


46 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


All sacrifice is royal and the hangman’s hand may 
crown; 

A death may be the threshold to the throne a 
people gain; 

And when the dripping dungeon of the slave is battered 
down, 

Thro’ the battle’s red baptism, thro' the war- 
storm's leaden rain, 

The people march to freedom, to a life without a 
chain 

And they passed to coronation o’er the corpse of old 
John Brown. 

The pendulum is swinging from holy dead to dead; 

The world will crown tomorrow what today it 
crucifies. 

Above the crimson Calvaries that with sacred blood ran 
red 

Are marble fingers pointing to the story of the 
skies. 

God’s word may seem to slumber but His promise 
never lies 

And the faith that persevereth shall be victor, He hath 
said. 

And when the Right doth seem to languish and is 
praying, grand and wan, 

When to our mortal vision, that with tears is 
often dim, 

The Wrong doth seem to triumph and the Evil marches 
on, 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


47 


And the Truth is ever pressing the hemlock's’bitter 
brim, 

We may see the wonderous shining of the bannered 
seraphim 

That are marching thro* the Midnight to the drum¬ 
beats of the Dawn. 



48 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


My Brown-Eyed Girl 


(Note:—This sonnet was written for my daughter Vera’s Commencement 
book. It is of interest only as it illustrates a cipher which Poe used in embedd¬ 
ing a name in his sonnets. Read the first letter of the title, second letter of the 
first line of sonnet, third letter of second line, fourth of third, etc., to the end.) 


0 YES mirroring brown Autumn’s harvest hue. 
To be the herald of the reaping year. 

Search eagerly the vault of Life, where fear 
And Hope see omens fair in smiling blue 
Or frowns in skies of gray. I pray for you 
All omens that shall prophesy the dear 
Full ripening of sheaves without a tear, 

Of nosegays barren of all bitter rue. 
Commencement means the seeding time as well 
As garnered dreams. Sow, therefore, for the days 
To come, those garnerings that shall follow fields 
You reap today in stores of hope, that tell 
Of laden bins. For thus thro’ all Life’s ways 
Your sheaves shall rise in ever-ripening yields. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


49 


For the Century Box 


(Deposited in the comer stone of Convention hall in 1900. Sorry I won't 
be here when it is opened in A. D. 2000.) 

H AR men of other days, across the years 
We speak to ye in voices faint and fine. 

Would that we might bathe in those vast lights 
that shine 

Upon thy farther shore. For ye each storm-cloud 
clears. 

Tomorrow knows. Today but hopes and fears. 

We sow with timid hand; the harvest thine. 

When hearts of men with Gods great plan align 
And true-proportioned every winnowed good appears. 
We dream. For ye the prophecy is true. 

We plant. Ye sit beneath the grateful shade. 

We toil at noon; the even’s rest for ye. 

But in our cup we drain no drop of rue 
If we the patient stepping stones are made 
To better things for those in days to be. 



50 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Mighty Debt 


D E live in distillations, essences; 

Put aeons into hours and seas in drops. 

The sum of things is all too gross for us; 

We needs must have the kernel, germ and core. 
The winnowed sheaf, the heart without the husk. 
We press the vines upon a hundred hills 
That we may drain one perfect draught; we crush 
A garden that but one short breath of ours 
May be more sweet. A thousand pangs but bear 
Upon their thorny crest one cactus-flower 
Of joy. Uncounted tears are shed that we 
May sing and thus for once forget to sigh. 

We are but legatees of ages gone. 

We sit beneath their planted shade. The fires 
They kindled warm these later days. Our load 
Was laid upon their bending backs. They bore 
The heat and burden of the sweltering noon 
That we might know the even’s grateful rest. 

The Present’s eager hands are overflowing, filled 
With all the Past hath poured with lavish hand. 
For who shall tell the roll of armies slain 
That we might tear the shackles from our limbs 
And stand erect and face the sun with eyes 
That see no master standing there between? 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


51 


Unnumbered millions suffered steel and fire, 

The gibbet’s shameful end, the sword and rack, 

That we might say “Amen” with chainless lips. 

The lightning girds the sphere like Ariel, 

We know why blood is red, how best to sow, 

How turn the tempest’s wrath aside, how best 
To draw the dagger fangs of Pain and how 
To make of Nature’s stern decrees the boon 
That robs the world of half its hate and tears 
And makes Death’s hand fall gentler on us all— 
Because unselfish, grand, heroic souls, 

Immured in cells, were banished from the sun 
And burned their lives like candles to the end, 

If only they might add one flickering ray 

Unto the world’s scant store of light. They climbed 

With staggering feet and rock-torn, bleeding hands, 

Up Life’s steep cliff, if on its kindly top 

That sweeps the sea with vast, untrammeled view, 

They might enkindle warning beacon fires 

To guide one ship into the harbor’s arms. 

And like unto those patient artisans 
That build the buried wonders of the sea, 

They lived their coral days, life piled on life, 

While o'er their heads the eager prows of joy 
Fared selfish onward to the Happy Bourne. 

They toiled and died in sunless depths, content 
To be the mighty base, unseen, that lifts 
The perfumed garden-isles of Better Days. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Innocence 


i^O do no ill were oft mere victory 

O’er wish; to think no evil far more great 
A triumph. Nor would I too lowly rate 
The issue of that struggle. Yet to me 
There is a finer, purer purity 

That knows no wrong and hangs not on the 
fate 

Of any contest. Uncontaminate 
It looks serene, unfaltering and doth see 
One path, one thing to do and that the right. 

Ah rare that compass-heart that ever steers 
By steadfast polar stars and never veers, 

Because it knoweth in its ignorance 
Beyond its seas one only harbor light— 

The beacon of inerrant innocence. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


53 


The Finer Ken 


X WONDER if the parting kiss 
Is not the dearer in its pain 
At thought of Love’s reunion bliss, 

When it shall clasp its own again. 

Have not the joys we know today 
A double tenderness for tears 
That blinded us along the way 
In far-off, sacrificing years? 

Nay more, may not all cost be blessed— 
The mountain heights for nobler view; 
The sea for every angry crest, 

The storm for making skies more blue? 

May love be hallowed by a blow, 

A smile be sweeter for a frown, 

A cross be loved, because we know 

We bear it toward the final crown? 

Yea, to the soul whose finer ken 

Doth read aright the rune of peace 
Its message comes, while duller men 
Are missing Life’s true ecstasies. 

To such a soul the brooding calms 

Shall know the joy that ne’er forgets, 
The desert greet unplanted palms 
And snows shall dream of violets. 



54 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Things We Miss 


rs 


E misses Life’s serener ways, 

The paths that lead to resting days 
Who seeth, toiling toward a prize 
Whose bauble gleaming blinds his eyes. 
No tear upon a brother’s face. 

For Pity at the parting stands; 

She holdeth out beseeching hands 

And points where fronded treetops rise, 
To cool retreats and azure skies. 


He misses Life’s true melodies 
The vespers of its finer peace, 

Who listens not for sweep of wings 
But only selfish whisperings 
Of cold neglect and dronish ease; 

Or, deafened by the din of marts, 

That drowns the cry of aching hearts, 
Shall never hear the summonings 
Of bugle calls to higher things. 

And he whose hands shall hold so much 
Of treasure they can only clutch 
The miser gain of empty years, 

The ashen spoil of hopes and fears, 
Shall never know Life’s sweetest touch— 
The loving press of gratitude 
For burdens lightened, faith renewed; 
For rainbows made of happy tears 
And sunshine of a way that clears. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


55 


Sir Walter Scott 


CJ 


[HOU artfthe North of all the world of mind 
And not alone of mere geographies, 

Oh, Abbotsford. High in thy polar skies 
There rose a star whose splendor, unconfined, 

Made luminant the darkness left behind 

When in the paling West men’s shadowed eyes 
Saw Stratford’s sun go down. In Dry burgh lies 
The dust the unforgetting years have shrined. 

The sleeper never died. And scarce a brae 
From Forth to Thames, from Warwickshire to Clyde, 
Scarce loch or castle, hamlet, crag or rill, 

But is his herald; hath a tongue to say 
That when that wondrous pen was laid aside 
The greatest heart since Shakespeare’s own 
was still. 



56 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


William Shakespeare 

(Note—A personal word is necessary in connection with this sonnet 
sequence. On a visit to Stratford I wrote two sonnets, which were tempo¬ 
rarily placed in the Shakespeare Birthplace museum. I was invited to send a 
poem to be read at the annual Shakespeare celebration the following year and 
on my return to America I wrote five other sonnets to complete the sequence 
I f I may say so without undue egotism, I regard this as my best work.) 


X MMORTAL Avon, by whose storied brim 
The Master mused, thy waters bear a freight 
Of glory that outgleams the proudest state 
Of castles or of kings. For when the dim 
Far distance hath no more remembered grim 
Old wars that battered down the bolted gate 
Of Empire, thou, oh Avon, shalt be mate 
To streams where gods have laved, because of him 
Who sheds the fadeless lustre of his fame 
Upon thee. —Ah, what vision-argosies, 

What brain-flotillas, fared toward the wide 
And waiting ocean of his shoreless fame 
From out that mighty soul! Their memories 
Haunt all thy crooning, blossom-bordered tide. 

II 

And as I laze ’mid buttercups that line 

Those prowling Warwick waters, I can see 
The glim’ring hosts of all knight-errantry 
Float down the stream upon the dancing shine 
Of afternoon. The drowsy hum around me, fine 
And faint as fairies' music, swells for me 
To martial strains of blazing heraldry; 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


57 


And on the air in flickering design, 

Are painted fleets and armies, champing steeds 
And standards trailed in crimson mire or flung 
From Glory’s heights to Victory’s battlecry. 
Wherever Duty’s dauntless ensign leads, 
Wherever Fame’s undying song is sung, 

War's red mirage is writ across the sky. 

III 

Then all the crimson glamor dies away 

And o’er the tented field there falls the sweet 
Glad radiance of all Love’s moons that meet 
Dear vows with smiling. I would not essay 
To limn again the scenes that on the gay 

And quivering easel of the moonlight greet 
My view and that the flowers beneath my feet 
Frame down the far perspective. Nay, 

Great Master, others told War’s story well 
But none hath sung of Loving like to thee, 

Of Love whose face was lit with joy and wet 
With tender tears in one. Ah, who shall tell 
Those vows that string all passion’s rosary 
And pray from Rosalind to Juliet? 

IV 

And now methinks I see thee, Mighty Shade, 

From that dear bank thy wild thyme grew upon, 
Review the airy ranks that flutter on 
Toward morning. Every land of earth hath paid 
Its portion to that gleaming pageant, made 

Of mist and gossamer. Aye, thou hast drawn 
From Elfinland to furnish forth the wan 


58 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Resplendence of that filmy cavalca de. 

Rome leads her Ceasars in a captive train 
And Greece her half-immortals. Italy 
And Albion are vassals to thy hand. 

Bleak Denmark, Caledonia, swart Spain 
And Egypt sack their palaces and fields for thee 
To swell the legions of that wavering band. 

V 

And as those shadows pass, my fancy sees 
Each tale re-acted on a flitting stage 
Of moonbeams. England’s roses wage 
Their bitter strifes again. Those tragedies 
That shook the world with their red rivalries 
Are told once more; and every gentler page 
Is lived. Again doth twisted Richard rage; 
Again Orlando moons amid the trees 
Of Arden. Sweet Titania doth romp 
Her tiny court through leafy forest aisle 
And merry tangle of a summer dream, 

With Spriteland’s spangled panoply and pomp 
Again doth royal Egypt queen the Nile 
And sweet Viola strides to love’s supreme. 

VI 

Again great Julius doth fall and Rome 

Doth weep. Again blind, banished Lear 
Feels on his face Cordelia’s filial tear. 

Again thy father-haunted prince doth come 
And lead in grief his drowned Ophelia home. 

Again Verona’s ill-starred lovers hear 
Their loving’s requiem beside the bier 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


59 


That holds them both. Again the fretted dome 
Of Glamis echoes to the butchered Duncan’s cries. 
Petruchio doth bridle his dear shrew 
And he who loved not wisely but too fond 
Slays her in folly that, alas, was wise 
Too late. Again the bloody-minded Jew 
Doth whet his blade and call upon his bond. 

VII 

The morn, the zenith noon, the even’s spell. 

The star-time, hath a songster all its own; 

Thou, Shakespeare, thou uncircumscribed, thou 
alone 

Hast been at once earth’s lark and philomel, 

To fill all nights and morns with music, tell 
All stories in that song, oh Wonder-One, 

That strikes all notes the world hath ever known, 
Whose gamut runs from Lear to Ariel. 

The laugh of sprites, the battle drum, the pains 
And bliss of Love, the harvest song, the strife 
Of thrones, immortal days, the grave’s despair, 

The summer wind, the snarl of swords—all strains 
That ever struck the listening ear of Life 
Or swept the strings of human hearts, are there. 



60 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


To a Warwickshire Forget-Me-Not 


E ORGET thee? Nay, like sweet blue 
eyes, 

That mirror back thine azure skies. 

Thou needst not plead so wistfully. 

A thousand ties of memory 
Shall bind me to thy wooded hills, 

Thy leafy lanes and crooning rills; 

And every tie shall make thee dear, 
Forget-me-not of Warwickshire. 

Tho’ far my winding feet shall stray 
Thou still shalt gladden all the way. 
Where ’er I wander I shall see 
Thy blue to cheer and comfort me; 

In stately street or lowly mart; 

For thou shalt blossom in my heart, 

As thou dost sweetly blossom here, 
Forget-me-not of Warwickshire. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


61 


Henley Street in Stratford 


O NE street doth dwarf the wide worlds thorough¬ 
fares ; 

One memory fills it overfull with fame; 

There is not space for any dollared name 
In all its annals. ’Tis but greed that dares 
To beg untendered alien gifts and shares 

Our heritage with others, whom ’twere shame 
To link with our vast Shakespeare’s in the same 
Tho’ lightest breath, that only reverent prayers 
Should breathe. Nay, more. Beneath Art’s thin veneer 
Elizabethan gables vainly hide 
The dollars wrung by hireling guns. The face 
Of pilfered poverty shall wanly peer 
From every window in the House of Pride 
That makes our Mecca Mammon’s market place. 


(Note—When I was in Stratford a controversy was raging over the pro¬ 
posal to put a Carnegie library in Henley street near the Shakespeare birthplac 



62 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Stratford-On* Avon 


O ’ER all the cities of the planet raise 

Thy laureled head, oh Stratford, in the fame 
That shines upon thee from our Shakespeare’s 
name; 

Forgetting never that the glory-rays 
That light thee to thy life of endless days 

Are his. Thy cup had brimmed if but he came 
To walk thy streets one idle day or claim 
An hour of rest among thy leafy ways. 

Nay, if one random word had called thee dear, 

Thine had been honor that could never die. 

But here he lived and loved. He was to see 

Thy skies the first and last. He loved thee. Here 
He dreamed and here his mighty ashes lie. 

This, Stratford, is thine immortality. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


63 


Just a Rose 


feet have pressed a hundred strands; 
Mine eyes have seen full many lands. 
No spot of all is half so dear 
Nor scene so fair as Warwickshire. 


Wild moor before my memory spreads; 

The mountains raise their rock-crowned heads. 
But glories of green Erin fail 
And Katrine’s haunting beauties pale 
Before the vision, fine and clear, 

Of what I’ve left in Warwickshire. 


Aye in my heart one bloom is worn; 
No holy shamrock; not the thorn 
Which gray old Scotland holdeth dear. 
But just a rose of Warwickshire.' 



64 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Farewell, Oh Kindly Isles 


S AREWELL, oh kindly isles. Nay, not farewell, 
Just au revoir; for I shall come again 
If He Who countersigns the dreams of men 
Forbids it not. Each ivied English dell, 

Each bleating hillside and the haunting spell 
Of twittering lanes, shall linger longest when 
I dream with open eyes of glade and glen, 

Of loch and crag and brimming burn and fell. 

Thou, dour, gray Scotland, even thou dost wring 
Thy meed of sighs. Fair Erin’s green and gold 
Waves in my heart; and tuneful Wales is dear. 
About them all affection’s tendrils cling. 

And high I mount them when my love doth hold 
Them first save my beloved Warwickshire. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


65 


Edgar Allan Poe 


a PON thy tomb we strew our tardy bays, 

Oh, wondrous sleeper, garlanding thy name 
With all forgetting’s late-remembering fame. 

We starved thee, racked thee, galled thy fleeting days 
With wormwood. Now our glib adoring pays 
Repentant honors, in a glory-flame 
That lights up half a world. Above thy shame 
And squalor fretted bronze and marble raise 
Their smug eulogiums, now that thou art dead. 

They might have healed the beak-wound in thy heart 
While yet it beat. What once we crucified 

Today we crown. We grudged thee, living, bread; 
We give thee roses now. We beggar Art 
And lexicons to frame our sudden pride. 



66 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Robert Bums 

(Written at Ayr) 


X BARE my head within these humble walls 

Where Ayr’s illumined plowman saw the day. 
My reverent feet retrace each storied way 
And over all a shine of glory falls; 

The spell of one compelling spirit thralls. 

Each tuneful burn, where he was wont to stray 
With Mary, every field and brig and brae 
And glen and glade upon the minstrel calls 
That hymned it into immortality. 

And lovingly, with more than marble’s art, 

With all the faithfullness of brooks, the long 
Fidelity of flowers, the memory 
Lives on of him who touched the race’s heart 
And wrote the simple, universal song. 


ft 


Asftiratin 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


69 


The Easter Cross 

Oh Calvary, at 
Faith’s glad Eas¬ 
tertide I see no 
cruel nails, no 
shameful thorn. 

But on this ra¬ 
diant Resurrection morn Thy gra¬ 
cious arms of welcome open wide, 
Like those of Love Incarnate^ Cru¬ 
cified. Thine agony and tears, 
all hate and scorn, The mighty 
grief of Him Who hung for- 
1 o r n—A11 these 
are gone today. 

Sweet lilies hide 
Thy blood-drops 
and Thy ribald 
crown. Each jeer 
and mock becomes 
a benedicite. The 
dawn of Life tri¬ 
umphant o’er the 
gloom Of Death hath 
swallowed up the black¬ 
er fear Of shadows and 
our faith can only see The 
risen Jesus and the vanquished tomb. 


70 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


“Only God Cares?” 


O NLY God cares?” Unmeant ingratitude! 

And dost thou go about thy little good 
For thanks of men ? Nay, with thy grateful tears 
Say on thy knees: “ What matters else ? God cares 
Thine “only” doth affront His tenderness; 

I f on thy labor falls the sweet caress 
Of His approval, what were human praise 
Beside the smile that lighteth all thy ways? 

“Only God cares?” And is not God enough? 

Thy plaint should be the balm for each rebuff. 

The arm will tire that leans on men’s acclaim; 

The soul be weary waiting for mere mortal fame. 
When Life’s hot sun beats on thine aching heart; 
When all the world doth seem to draw apart 
And leave thee lonely in its selfishness; 

Nay, when thy pity for the world’s distress 
Is left to languish on the cross it bears, 

If none regardeth thee beside—God cares. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


71 


Faith 


© 


ODAY is dim and stormy skies 
Veil God’s Tomorrow from our eyes. 
But Faith knows this; that, after tears, 
The bow shall span, serene, sublime, 
A vault that arches azure years, 

Some time, dear heart—God’s time. 


The way oft winds thro’ tracklessness 
And oft we sail it rudderless. 

But Faith can see the harbor light, 

The herald of a stormless day; 

And there shall open thro’ the night 
Some way, dear heart—God’s way. 

We dream of dreams by hope fulfilled; 

We sigh for realms where sighs are stilled. 

And tho’ we may not press the shore 
Today, Faith knows it still is there; 

That we shall sigh and dream no more 

Some where, dear heart—God’s vast Some 
Where. 



72 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Altruism 


W 


IFE hath no small gratuities; 

We only know by living; 

The soul grows strong thro’ victories 
And only gets by giving. 


No largess fills the beggar hand 
That holds no gift to bless it; 
Life's vineyard hath no waving wand, 
No wine unless we press it. 


But yearning that to others brings 
The bounty of its treasures 
Shall heap with vast replenishings 
From overflowing measures. 


For only doth the selfish choose 

The broad, safe way that windeth; 
The love that seeks itself shall lose 
And glad forgetting findeth. 


But not until ourselves are free 
And break the utter fetter, 
May we teach others liberty 

Or dare to make them better. 


No soul that never wore a chain 

Knows freedom's glad completeness; 
No heart that never writhed in pain 

Hath learned pain’s hidden sweetness. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


78 


Mayhap our own brave triumphing 
Shall make a weak one stronger; 
Mayhap our pangs of suffering 
Shall bid him weep no longer. 

We suffer weakly, vainly grieve, 

And tears shall only blind us 
If thorns that pierced our feet shall leave 
No warning stains behind us. 



74 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Religion Undefiled 


/■KiS not in fretted temples 

Nor the church of mounting spire, 
In the pomp of surpliced sermons 
Nor the concerts of the choir, 

That I hear the gentle gospel 
Of a Savior meek and mild. 

For the show of creed and dogma 
Is not “religion undefiled.“ 


But the ministry of going 

To the teeming city hives; 

Down, ’mid the sunken thousands, 

In the Place of Buried Lives. 

The warm Christ-heart that burneth 
With the old Judean flame; 

The cup of water given 

To the glory of His name. 

Some word that speaks a message 
To the hearts that faint and tire; 

The love that guides the stumbling 
Through the pitfalls and the mire; 

That revives the sinking manhood 
Some temptation hath beguiled 

And is husband to the widow, 

Is “religion undefiled.“ 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


75 


That reacheth to the gutter 
And raiseth him that fell; 

That makes this world a heaven 
And sayeth naught of hell. 

Some gently said “My brother!” 

That gives him heart again; 
Some cheery, kind “God bless you!” 
Is that gospel's great amen. 

Not the splendor of cathedrals 
Nor the love of velvet pews; 

But the faith that feeds the hungry 
And gives the barefoot shoes; 
That lays its hand upon the forehead 
Of a fever-tossing child; 

This is Jesus Christ’s religion; 
Religion pure and undefiled. 



76 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Eva Marshall Shontz 


X HONOR thee, unselfish, consecrate! 

The Nazarene hath touched thee and for thee 
This world is like His far-off Galilee. 

Thou walkest His devoted way. Thy great, 

Warm heart feels all the throbs of which these sate 
Last days have fewer than they should. For we 
Who mourn and sorrow all too rarely see 
Another weep that we are desolate. 

The worlds hot tears are on thy pitying face; 

Its ache is in thy loving heart; its cry 
Of pain is on thy lips. And yet I pray 

Thee patience and the meek Judean's grace. 
Such lives as thine bring e'er and ever nigh 
The coming of the Right’s triumphant day. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


77 


Compensation 


O UR sighs may beat against hours full of song; 
Unheeded we may faint beneath our woes; 

Yet tho’ the world unwitting laughs along, 

God knows. 

Unbound our wounds may smart and ope again; 

Unanswered by the Levite days our prayers; 

But this shall be the balm Samaritan— 

God cares. 

Alone we toil toward where grief crucifies 

Forsaken hearts on earth's dark Calvaries. 

But every thorn that wrings unpitied cries 
God sees. 

His tenderness knows not indifference 

To any pain or sorrow, cross or tears; 

Each call that challenges His Providence 
He hears. 

To every need His peace is dedicate; 

And every need omniscient pity moves. 

What tho' our hearts writhe on men's racks of hate? 
God loves. 



78 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


A Dream of Calvary 


X DREAMED and in my dreams I walked a broad 
And bannered way. Mine eager feet were set 
Toward where the gilded courts of Sin were ruled 
By all the baser monarchs of the world, 

Whose empire is the human heart; where high 
Upon the topmost throne cold Selfishness 
Supremely sat, that seeth never tears 
That fall nor heareth prayers that rise, but drains 
Life’s brimming chalice with no pitying 
For them that thirst; sits down to laden boards 
And cares not for the hungering Lazarus 
Beside the gate. 

And in my dream the path 
Was bordered with a thousand hues and rang 
With all the gay fanfare of revelry. 

Sweet fountains flashed with wine for crimson spray. 
Fair forms of beauty rollicked hand in hand 
And mocked and called with siren beckoning to me 
And laughed the laugh of Phrynnes. Life’s red fruit 
Hung bursting from the branches of the trees. 

I needed but to pluck and eat. All things 
That lure our lives away from all their best 
And highest, all the snares that lime the soul 
And net the wings that seek to rise above 
The clods, drowned pleading voices that I heard 
And closed mine eyes to faces that I saw 
In wan and wistful byways. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


79 


As I went 

Methought I came upon a Place of Gloom 
And Anguish stretching full athwart my course. 

And hanging from a blood-wet Calvary 
A Gracious Form all pierced with horrid nails; 
Adown a face of wondrous majesty 
The red drops rolled beneath a coronet 
Of thorns. Dear God! My rebel heart had grace 
Enough to cry: “ Is there no other way 
To pleasure saving this? I cannot pass 
To sin within the shadow of Thy tree! 

Redeeming death hath turned the cup of Joy 
To blood—Thy blood! I cannot drain it, Lord! 

While those rebuking and yet pitying eyes 
Are on me, for their loving burns my soul 
With fiercer flames than their divine reproach.’’ 

And as I dreamed methought the wan gray lips 
Made answer: “He that walks the winding road 
That broadens as it nears the brink of Death 
Must pass Me by. There is no other way.” 

Then pity flared an instant in my heart, 

That melted as I turned toward purer paths; 

A tear of sorrow for the Innocence 

Nailed there for my black guilt was in mine eyes. 

And straight methought the anguished face was filled 

With joy, illumined with a smile; forgot 

The buffets and forsakenness, the gashing spear, 

The stony hate that crucified the Prince 
Of Love. A Human grief was balm to wounds 
Divine. Redemption’s work was done. The grave 
Was truly conquered; dying had no sting; 

The Lamb of God had not been slain for naught. 


80 


SONGS JN SEVEN KEYS 


And then I knew that if my pity staunched 
The wounds that bought my victory over death 
The cold and stubborn heart, iniquities 
For which the Son of Man was bruised, made them 
To bleed afresh. Nay more, the hand that grasped 
The cup of sin pressed down upon His brow 
The diadem of hatred, drove the nails 
That racked that sinless flesh. 

I woke and still 

The mem'ry of my vision in my heart 
Abided, consecrating Life to Love, 

All pain to tenderness and wandering feet 
Were set upon the path that led to Olivet. 




SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


81 


God From Three Hills 


X N me, oh Christ, Thou dead or living art. 
I am Thy manger or Thy tree. 

In my revering or rejecting heart 
Is Bethlehem or Calvary. 

For when I hate Thee then I crucify, 

I crown Thee with the Crimson Thorn. 
But in my love’s repentant cry, 

Oh rapt Judean, Thou art born. 

II 

It may be true—’twere kinder so— 

That mankind runs and toils and strives 
Toward rising goals thro’ many lives 
And, living all things, all shall know. 

’Twere grander if the vast advance 
Were God’s self-saved humanity's; 

Its errors changed to victories, 

The Mercy of Another Chance. 

Ill 

I am the heir of Deity; 

All that is God’s is mine; 

I read my genealogy 

Thro’ earth’s imperial line; 

My sonship is the legacy 

That makes all men divine. 


82 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Be Thou Bethlehem, My Soul 


CiE thou Judea, oh my life! And thou, 

My soul, be Bethlehem, where Christ shall lie 
Newborn each day and where His flaming star 
Shall light me to His manger every hour. 

So shall He from my soul, His cradle, rise 
And walk adown my life, as once He walked 
The olden paths. So shall the living Christ 
Be lived and all my days be Nazareths, 

Where Jesus dwells; and every holy place 
Wherever gentle deed was done or boon 
Of faith was granted or a miracle 
Of might was wrought. So shall He teach again 
The people,—dead faith rise and live once more— 
And baffled graves be cheated of their spoil. 

So blinded eyes shall see and sealed ears 

Shall know the loving music of His voice 

And stormy Galilees of grief shall hear 

The sweet commandment bidding them be stilled. 

Aye, be thou even sad Gethsemane, 

My heart, where Christ shall agonize and love 
Incarnate labors in the throes of grief. 

Nay, I would beg this utter gift of grace. 

That somewhere, sometime, in this life I long 
To live, in some divine, revealing hour, 

Some season when I feel the sweep of wings 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


83 


And Life grows honey-sweet with meaning—then, 
May some faint shadow from high Calvary 
Fall o’er my way and touch mine eager soul, 

All rapt and quivering, with that supreme 
Of Love for all the world, that died that death 
Might be the gate of endless life. But oh, 

I pray that other sins than mine shall drive 
The cruel nails that racked that sinless flesh, 

I f need must be that it should bleed for men; 

And that the cold rebellion of another heart 
Shall press the thorny crown upon His brow. 

But not about this lowly bed today 
Shall Death’s dark pinions beat. His star is there, 
His message painted on the sky. I hear 
The shepherd’s call, the song of angels: “Peace 
On earth, good will to men.” I love to dream 
Of Christ in swaddling clothes, of crooning Mother¬ 
hood— 

Immortal Might in helpless Infancy; 

The human raised to Love’s divinest heights 
In Godhood stooped to lowest depths of earth. 

So this shall be my fondest prayer of all: 
That thou shalt be a Bethlehem, my soul! 


84 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Frances E. Willard 


B 


t 0W beautiful to be with God!” To fold 
The tired white hands upon the lap of Rest. 
To furl upon the still, unheaving breast 
The ensign that those patient hands shall 
hold 


No more. To never tread again the cold 
Dark ways of earth, but walk among the blest! 
To feel the weary eyelids gently pressed 
To slumber that shall wake to peace untold. 

To don the robes of immortality 

And lay the world’s unlovely garments down. 

To hear no more the harsh, discordant strain 
Of earth, but chant the swelling melody 
Of choirs above the stars. To wear the crown 
That God hath said the kindled soul shall 
gain. 


“How beautiful to be with God!” And yet 

From out that beauty there shall come to all 
Who hold the banner that she dropped a call 
To close the staggered ranks again; to set 
The snowy standard farther on; to let 
No loss dishearten that can ever fall; 

To gaze on stars that shine beyond a pall; 

To smile, press on and win, with faces wet 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


85 


With tears; to make her dream her monument; 
To feel her hand in ours, tho' she is gone; 

To live so we shall hear her as she goes 

Among us day by day, as when she went 
Of old, to cheer and help us, leading on. 

To feel her eyes behold us and^shejoiows 



86 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


A Christmas Recessional 

(After Kipling) 


]YOD of the poor, now as of old, 

Lord of hunger’s ragged line. 

Beneath Whose hand we truly hold 

Thy bounty as but stewards—Thine; 

Lord of the poor, be with them yet; 

For we forget—for we forget. 

Our mansions crumble to their base; 

Gone our riches, hopes and fears; 

We stand in Thy dread judgment place; 

What have we done with Thine these years? 
Lord of the poor, be with them yet 
When we forget—when we forget. 

Our stiff-necked pomp is passed away; 

We stand convicted in our pride; 

Naked are we at that Terror Day 

If “least of these” were spurned aside. 
Judge of love, condemn not yet, 

Tho’ we forget—tho’ we forget. 

If in our purblind might we fail 

To lift our brethren from the dust, 

Bind not their wounds, hear not their wail, 
Unfaithful to our talent-trust, 

Oh God, pass not Thy sentence yet; 

We but forget—we b ut forget. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


87 


Oh Christless heart that puts its stand 
In purse and state and hollow show; 
Foolish builder on the sand 

That builds of gold a house of woe. 
Each strutting boast, each spurning word. 
Forget! Remember not, oh Lord! 



88 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Back to Galilee 


P^ACK toward Judea turn the battling hearts 
Of men in these the creed-and-canon days; 
From soaring spires and armaments to where 
The Nazarene first walked the fretted sea; 

From gilded domes whose crass magnificence 
Hides not the hovels in their shade to where 
The Master lay that Galilean night 
Beneath the stars; from velvet pews and gold 
And silver glittering to where He said: 

“To visit them that suffer and are sick 
Is true religion, undefiled.” “Whoso 
Shall rightly worship God must worship Him 
In spirit and in truth.”—The world doth tire 
Of hollow show and sounding litanies 
That echo from the bannered fields of War; 

Of vestments crusted with the gems that mock 
The starving bodies and the hungry hearts 
Of men. It longs to hear the gentle creed: 
“Love one another. Whosoever gives 
A cup of water to the least of these 
Shall give it unto Me.” World-weary souls 
Are turning from the blasphemy of Pride 
And back across the crimson centuries 
They go, back over fields of hate and strife, 
Back over pathways red with sacred blood 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


89 


And lighted with the fires of stakes and gleam 
Of swords—until at last they reach the plain 
Of Bethlehem and stand beside a Holy Child. 

And there, beneath the skies where angels sang 
For joy, the story of two thousand years 
Is blotted out. Upon the New Command 
No bloody seal is set. “Good will to men 
“And peace on earth,” the gentle message runs. 
No mummery doth drown that simple word, 

Just “Jesus,” “who was born in Bethlehem.” 

No blood is there but that which purified 
A spotted world. No tinkling raiment shames 
The lowly garb of them that worshipped Truth, 
Presuming not to parcel mercy out 
Or shut the gates of grace on any soul. 

The ground where Jesus trod His earthly 
course 

Is not divided into many folds; 

The Shepherd sought for all who strayed and one 
He found He counts more precious than the nine 
And ninety—J esus, give us back the days 
When Thou didst live Thy human life divine. 
Raze all our piles of carved stone and steel 
And on their ashes rear Thine olden fane, 

The temple where the blue Judean hills 
Were walls; whose font was Galilee; whose hymns 
Were just the songs of faith; whose litany 
Was kindly words lived in Thy gentle life; 

Whose sermon was the message of Thy Mount ; 
Whose nave the mighty way that Thou didst walk 


90 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


From Bethelhem to Calvary. And may 
We know no gospel but Thy birth and sacrifice; 
Just Jesus, bom beneath the chanting stars 
And Who was crucified and rose and loves 
And pities those who crucify Him now 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


91 


May We Be Wise, Oh Lord! 


H S once in far Judea's long ago 

The wise ones, bringing gifts of frankincense 
And jewels, worshipped Him Whom firmaments 
Were proud to canopy, dear Savior, so 
We bring today our gems of tender longing, snow 
Of alabaster hearts and white intents, 

The perfume of a consecrated reverence. 

And as the wise ones knelt, content to know 
Of all their wisdom one supernal thing— 

That God was slumbering on Madonna’s breast—- 
So we lay down our little pomp of lore, 

Our bauble fruits of petty triumphing, 

And joy alone in Him we have confessed, 

Who giveth life enduring evermore. 



02 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Easter 


H ET not my soul, oh Christ, be but a tomb 
Whence men shall never see Thee rise. 

| But let the splendor of Thy sacrifice 
Irradiate the shadows and the gloom. 

Let not the terrors of the darkness loom 

Around, nor sealed stone to mock Thy cries. 

When in noon-midnight Thou didst agonize. 

Nay, make my life to be the gracious Room 
Where Thou shalt win Thy vastest victories; 

Where men shall not behold Thee sepulchred, 

But gaze upon the broken seal, the stone 

Rolled back. For Thou art dead, or quick, in me 

If I have put Thy love aside or heard 

The tendTest call the world hath ever known. 




























c Ihe Child Heart 















SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


95 


A Boy and a Girl 


X SAW them one day in the sunshine, 

Out there where the clover blows; 

A wee little tiny towheaded girl 

And a boy with a freckled nose; 

With an old straw hat without any brim 
And “galluses” holding his clothes; 

A wee little girl with a pigtail braid 
And a boy with two stubbed toes. 

I saw them one eve in the twilight, 

Down there where the river flows. 

The pigtail braid is a big braid now— 

How a lad or a lassie grows!— 

The old straw hat is a new hat now 
And never a freckle shows 
On the face of a youth, who, bending his head, 
Gives a fair-haired maiden a rose. 

I saw them again in the sunshine 
And whatever do you suppose? 

Between and about them there romped 
And ran and clung to their clothes 
A wee little tiny towheaded girl 

And a boy with two stubbed toes; 

A wee little girl with a pigtail braid 
And a boy with a freckled nose. 



96 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Father’s Hand 


g SCENE in the midst of the city 
Brought peace to my heart today; 
A man, a rough man of the people, 

Was walking a city way. 

And fast to his hand held a toddler, 
With hair that was angel-gold; 

And oh, the gentle confiding 

That clung in that dimpled hold! 

And walking they came to a danger, 

A steep that was tiny and sheer; 
The wee, clinging fingers tightened, 

And blue eyes widened with fear. 
But roughly the man reassured her, 

In words she could understand: 
“There ain’t nothin’ goin’ to hurt you; 
Ain’t papa got hold of your hand?’’ 

But all thro’ the petulant fondness, 
Impatient, rebuking and stern, 

The fatherhood rang like an anthem 
And this is the lesson I learn: 

For I am a child, like the toddler 
And I’m hearing the Father say: 
“Fear not any steep of the journey 
Or pitfall along the way.” 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


97 


And e’en as the little one feared not 
But held all the closer and fast, 
Serene in a sureness that trusted, 

So clingeth my faith to the last. 
His shield and His love are about me, 
All dangers to safely withstand. 
What harm shall ever befall me— 
The Father holdeth my hand! 



98 SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Tie-Back Apron and Curls 


O NE day as I gazed at the sunset, 

My heart grew strangely still; 

For there on the gold horizon 

Was a cloud that looked like a mill; 
And standing there in the doorway, 
Where the eddying current whirls, 
Was a prim little childish figure, 

In a tie-back apron and curls. 

It was only an eager fancy, 

But my face was wet with tears. 

It seemed that my vanished Girlhood 
Came back thro’ a mist of years; 
Came back and seemed to beckon 
And point to the olden days, 
Standing there in the gates of Cloudland, 
In the soft, dissolving haze. 

And it all came back in the twilight— 
The schoolhouse down in the lane; 
The old brown mill at the turning 
And the golden grists of grain; 

The spray of the mossy mill-wheel, 

Like a little white flag that furls. 
And a child that stood and watched it 
In a tie-back apron and curls. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


But swiftly the picture faded; 

Its life was the life of a sigh, 

And then it was only a cloud-bank, 

That aimlessly drifted by. 

Perhaps it was all but a vision, 

A fancy born of a gleam, 

But it seemed that the doors of Childhood 
Had oped at the touch of a dream. 

On many and many a sunset 

I have wistfully gazed since then, 

But the mill and the prim little figure 
Have come to me never again. 

And often I pray—how often!— 

At the altar of grown-up girls, 

For the days when I watched the water 
In a tie-back apron and curls. 


100 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Child Heart 


X WOULD I had my childhood’s eyes, 
Alone the good and pure to see; 

Could I but look with frank surprise 

On Life’s dark things as strange to me. 

I would I walked my childhood’s ways 
In paths that led thro’ sunny hours. 

No sting or thorn in all my days, 

No pitfalls lurking ’mid the flowers. 

I would I had my childhood trust, 

My faith in all that God hath done; 
When all was true and kind and just, 
Deceit, betraying, all unknown. 

I want my childhood’s heart again 

The years have stolen as they went; 
The eyes that saw no sin or pain, 

My trust, my flowers, my content. 

And yet mayhap ’tis better so 

That tears should often dim our eyes; 
That we should live all things and know 
By falling how to truly rise. 

It were not well that always we 

Should dwell in Childhood’s yesterdays. 
Alone thro’ pain may Pity see 

The tears upon a brother’s face. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


101 


The Man Who is 12 Years Old 


^^=nHERE’S a man that I know and he lives near you 
In a town called Everywhere. 

You might not think he’s a man from his hat 
Or the clothes he may chance to wear. 

But under the jacket with many a patch 
Is a heart more precious than gold; 

The heart of a man ’neath the coat of a boy, 

A man who is twelve years old. 


He only is waiting to wear the crown 
That is already made for his brow. 

And I pray that his mind will always be clean, 
His body as pure, as now; 

His heart always fresh and sunny and warm, 
With none of Life’s canker and mold; 

And may he be worthy his waiting estate, 

This man who is twelve years old. 


We never can tell what the future will make 
Of the boys that we carelessly meet; 
For many a statesman is doing the chores 
And presidents play in the street. 

The hand that is busy with playthings now 
The reins of power shall hold; 

So I take off my hat and gladly salute 
This man who is twelve years old. 



102 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The All-Aboard Train 


i^HE All-Aboard train leaves at Sleepy o’clock 
And a wonderful train it is. 

They won’t let you ride unless you are good; 

And your tickets you buy with a kiss. 

The cars always start from Snuggle-down street 
Just a blink and a nod from Nap; 

The waiting room is a little white gown 
And the depot is mama’s lap. 


The first thing you hear is “Tickets, please!’’ 

At Kitchie-kitch-kitch avenue; 

And maybe they’ll make you pay double fare 
Before you have passed Agoo. 

Then away down the track for Peekabooville 
The All-Aboard train will fly, 

Just a hug and a pat from a mother’s smile 
And a ticket or two from a sigh. 


And soon you will come to Pattycake town, 
Where the baker man lives, you see; 

You stay there awhile for the cake to get cool 
And mama and you have tea. 

A long stop is made at Dimpletonville 
And mama looks out of the cars 
And thinks of the tickets nobody takes up— 
How many in the world there are! 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


103 


And the first thing you know you’re at Nighty- 
night street, 

In the middle of Bless-its-heart town; 

The signal to stop is a kiss on your hand 
And the All-Aboard train slows down. 

You softly pull up at a little white bed 
And all of your tickets are gone. 

Then the empty train backs to Tomorrow night 
And waits for you to get on. 


104 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Wouldn’t It Be Queer? 


[AY, wouldn’t you think it was funny 
If the Fourth of July came in June? 

If you didn’t have dinner till breakfast 
And mama got supper at noon? 

But wouldn’t it be just awful 

If the sun should go off to the play 
And the clock didn’t wake him next morning 
And he didn’t get up that day? 


And wouldn’t you think it peculiar 

If your head was down by your toes 

And you had to be very careful 

For fear you stepped on your nose? 

And what if you had two faces 

And we didn’t know which was you— 

But maybe you have two, sometimes, 

Are you quite, quite sure it’s not true? 

Just think if you had to dig peaches 
And cucumbers grew in a tree; 

And your dolly had married the kitten 
And mama had asked them to tea. 

Suppose that the birds were liv e flowers 
And the roses and lilies could sing; 

And the fairies had asked you to supper— 
Haven’t you dreamed such a thing? 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


105 


And wouldn’t it be just splendid 
If people never were mean, 

And the minister never kissed you 
And apples never got green; 

And they’d take old buttons for sodas 
And peppermints grew on a vine. 

And every day was your birthday— 

Say, wouldn’t that be just fine? 

But suppose that mama should charge you 
A nickel each time you were dressed 
And a quarter for every snuggle 

Close down on her loving breast; 

And suppose that she never would kiss you 
If you hadn’t some pennies for her, 

And suppose you didn’t have any 

And didn’t know where any were! 

I guess on further reflection— 

That’s too big a word by far— 

After all it is very much better 

That things are just as they are. 

It would really be too funny 

If the winter should come in the spring— 
But think of the beautiful music 
If the roses and lilies could sing! 


106 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Going Bye Bye 


J ND it’s ho, for the Land of Bye Bye, 
Astraddle of papa’s knee, 

With two big hands for the stirrups 
And two little lips for the fee. 

And now we are off at a gallop 

Thro’ meadow and valley and wood 
For a visit to Peter Piper 

And Little Red Riding Hood. 

And maybe we’ll stop at the fairies 
Down there in the hazel dell; 

For where Papa Horsey will take us 
The horsey himself can’t tell. 

And maybe we’ll call on Miss Muffet, 
And maybe, and maybe, we'll come 
To where one little pig went to market 
And one little piggie stayed home. 

But this I know, that so surely 
As the littlest piggie could talk 
So surely we’ll nod in the saddle 

And the gallop will slow to a walk; 
And then we will be at the stable 
And tenderly horsey will stand, 
While mama lovingly leads us 

To the dream-decked Lullaby Land. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS. 


107 


Oh, rapturous, radiant glamor 

That aureoles vanished hours; 

Oh, rest for the hearts that are weary, 
With memories sweet as flowers; 

Back there in the Land of Bye Bye, 

Where the romping fancies roam, 
Where one little pig went to market 
And one little pig stayed at home! 

I travel the big world over 

But none of the scenes I see 
Is like to the wondrous places 
Where I went on papa’s knee. 

I want to give one of my journeys 
In the wide, wide world of men 
For one hour of that vanished childhood— 
I want to go bye bye again! 



108 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Little Girl Land 


X AM singing a song of Little Girl Land, 
Where marbles and kites never come; 
Where never is heard the toot of a horn 
Or the rub-a-dub-dub of a drum. 

But oh, it is splendid with parties, 

Out under the old apple tree; 

With a three-legged chair for the table 
And a broken old cup for the tea. 

You make mud pies in the sunshine 
And set them to cool in a row. 

And sometimes when mama is baking a cake 
You beg for a piece of the dough. 

The guest of the morning is kitty 
And a little doll dish is her plate. 

And you get so anxious and flustered 
For fear that the rest will be late. 

Just down the street is the rich folks’ house 
And a wee little girl like you. 

Sometimes she comes to your house to play 
And she has a dolly, too. 

It will cry whenever you punch it 

And has sure-enough hair that is curled 
But your old rag doll is the bestes’ 

And you wouldn’t trade for the world. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


109 


Sometimes when mama is hanging out clothes 
You splatter and dabble and rub, 

Do a whole summer’s wash in half of an hour 
And sometimes you fall in the tub. 

And sometimes when mama is sewing 

You coax for the three-cornered scraps 
And you make a pink nightie for dolly 
Or an empire gown, perhaps. 

And sometimes you put on an old brown skirt 
That mama can’t wear any more 
And you sail ’round the yard like big folks 
And then you go in and play store. 

You deliver some groceries to mama 

And she knows what each order means; 

She pays you in old wrapping paper 

And gets pebbles for coffee and beans. 

And sometimes when mama is very tired 
And says that her head’s in a whirl, 

You help her to set the table for tea 

And she calls you her dear little girl. 

She says you’re her little housekeeper 
And what in the world do they do— 

Those mamas that haven’t a helper, 

A little housekeeper like you? 

And sometimes the angels come down from above 
And one of them thinks he will stay; 

And he is a wee, little brother to love 
And to wheel in the sun each day. 


110 SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


And sometimes the parlor is darkened 

And you don’t understand the dull pain; 

All that you know is that brother 

Has gone back to the angels again. 

Oh, a magical land is Little Girl Land, 

Where marbles and kites never come; 

Where never is heard the toot of a horn 
Or the rub-a-dub-dub of a drum. 

In after years you will see it thro’ tears 
And then you will understand 

Why your old rag doll was the bestes’. 

Back there in Little Girl Land. 




SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


111 


To a Child 


^f^xHOU lovest me for what I am; and naught 

It matters what I wear or give. Thine eyes 
Sound all the depths of cheap dishonesties. 
Gold cannot tempt thee. Thou canst not be bought. 
Thy favor must be won by worth, not sought 

With sweetmeats or the larger bribe of lies 
Pretense doth utter. By the thin disguise 
Of station or apparel thou art never caught. 

Thou never judgest by the hollow ring 
Of purses. May I never fall to meet 
The great rebuke of thy deserved disdain. 

So from thy trust shall I sincereness bring; 

So shall mine unbetraying soul remain 
Unlured by guile, unnetted by deceit. 









* 





1 


\ 


c The Song of Songs 








SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


11 


Two Lovers 


e> 


'WO lovers in Life’s morning stood 
And watched the robins wait, 
Among the fragrant apple boughs; 

Each for his calling mate. 

He kissed her shyly, then they romped 
And prattled thro’ the gate— 

For one was just eleven years 
And one was only eight. 


Two lovers in Life’s golden noon 
Beneath the apple tree 
Heard once again the robins call. 

“I love you,” whispered he. 

“The birds are singing Love’s sweet song, 
Dear heart, for you and me.” 

And one of them was twenty-six 
And one was twenty-three. 


Two lovers in Life’s afterglow 

Watched each swift-changing hue. 
Thro’ all the years Love’s mating call 
Had echoed sweet and true. 

“ I love you, dear,” he whispered low; 

“And I,” she answered, *’you.“ 
And one of them was sixty-five 
And one was sixty-two. 



116 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


My Little Firelight Sweetheart 


HE comes to me often and often 
As I sit by the grate alone; 

My dear little Firelight Sweetheart 
With a face that is like your own. 
She’s beckoning there in the embers, 
And saucily nodding her head, 

In a fluttering frock of crimson 
And a tiny wee tippet of red. 


I can see her flickering ribbons 

And the tossing stray lock on her brow; 
Down there where the coals are the brightest, 
Where that reddest one fell just now. 
And the scintillant gleam of her mantle, 

Like a gown I have seen you wear; 

And the radiant scarlet roses, 

Like the ones I kissed in your hair. 


And now she is archly smiling 

As she roguishly beckons again, 

In the door of her little red cottage, 

At the turn of a little red lane. 

And now she has come to the window, 
Where a clambering flame-vine clings 
And the murmuring croon of the firelight 
Is the love-song that she sings. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


117 


And ever and ever she cheers me, 

As I sit by the grate alone, 

My dear little Firelight Sweetheart 
With a face that is like your own. 
See, there in the dancing doorway 
She saucily nods her head, 

In a flickering frock of crimson 
And a tiny, wee tippet of red. 



118 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Mercenary 


X COVET the gold that shineth 

And diamonds and gems that gleam; 

I long for the glittering dowry 

Mine avarice sees in a dream— 

A dream of radiant treasure 

That is mine to have and to hold; 

For the maid I’m to marry hath riches 
And I’m wedding for jewels and gold. 

For the gold in the rippling tresses 

That shine with a sunbright sheen; 

For the rubies in lips of crimson 
And the pearls that lie between. 

For the blue in the blue of the sapphire 
In eyes that are brave and sweet; 

The eyes that falter at parting 

And eyes that brim when we meet. 

But the crowns of a hundred kingdoms 
And the gems of a blazing mart 
And all of the miser mountains 

Hold no wealth like the wealth of her heart. 
These are the riches I covet, 

The treasures of Ophirs untold; 

And, clasping that radiant dowry, 

I’ll marry for jewels and gold. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


119 


Love’s One December 


C IS not the drifted mounds of white, the drear 
Wan days, the sheeted throngs, the icy air, 

That say ’tis Winter. Nay, dear heart, the bare 
Stark vines would bloom for me if you were here, 

Tho’ all the world were blinded. I should hear 

Your voice thro’ all the storm-king’s wild fanfare. 
The sky would turn to blue; the world would wear 
June roses dewed with every happy tear 
Love ever shed; and every empty tree 
Would echo with its olden twittering. 

For flowers make not our summers nor the snows 
December. When my gladdened eyes can see 
Your face, beloved, it is always Spring 
And all about me Love’s soft petals grow. 



120 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Love’s Hoarding 


X PRAY, dear heart, our loving never knows 
That saddest hour that loving ever sees. 

When this full cup shall seem, not bitter lees, 
But just the draught that palls and never overflows, 
As once it brimmed; and when it sudden grows 
All wan and wistful; when but memories 
Of purple hillsides mock satiety’s 
Unanswered thirst. I pray Love’s dewy rose 
Shall never fade, not to remorseful thorn. 

But just to where no perfume makes it sweet. 

I pray Love’s mating message never dies, 

Not into angry silence, but forlorn 
Shall sing its story out and cannot greet 
Life’s twittering treetops with its glad replies. 

II 

But always shall there be, my loving prays, 

One draught that we shall never drain, the best 
Of all the ripening vineyards, dearer than the rest, 
Because it shall be dearest in the days 
When, morn and noontide past, the twilight grays 
The eve of Life. And blooming on Love’s breast 
Shall gleam a rose whose perfume, never pressed, 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


121 


Shall fragrance petals never opened to the gaze 
Of any eye but His Who seeth all. 

And thrilling with a song too sweet to sing 
Save in soul-anthems, tender melodies 

Lips may not chant, Love’s mating call 

Shall gladden all our years, from Life’s green spring 

To browning leaves and winter’s snowy peace. 



122 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


You and I 


B 


TOUCH and goodbye in the moonlight 
Out there in the filtering shine; 

A clasping of hands of the spirit; 

A soul that was speaking to mine; 

A low, tender chord like an anthem 
That none of the others heard; 

A harmony dear with the rythm 
Of music with never a word. 


And only the hands of the spirit 

Were lingering there in the night; 

For the gaze of the world was upon us 
And even we., dear, were affright. 

We feared to be earnest and honest 

In the spell of that sudden content; 

And only the safety of distance 

Gave tongue to the things that we meant 


But now we have broken the silence 
And murmured a part of the whole; 
In the words of this gentle communion, 
This friendship that comforts the soul. 
And so I commit it to you, dear. 

For you are as leal as the day; 

Serene in a patient confiding 

I’ll wait for your little* “You may.” 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


123 


Shore and Tide 


CD 


k Y life, beloved, is the shore; thy love 
The tide that laves it with the ebb and flow 
Of heart-beats, mightier than oceans know; 
Rich laden with the wondrous treasure-trove 
Of deeps the blind shore-world knows nothing of— 
Love’s pearl and coral; blossomings that grow 
In gardens deeper than the wistful glow 
Of captive starlight from the blue above; 
Shell-mem'ries that are ever murmuring 
The prisoned message of thy heart, their sea; 

The gleam of all the Ophirs of thy soul, 

That beggar every tinseled bauble thing 
Of Time—down there amid Eternity, 

Where God’s unplumbed, tremendous surges roll. 


124 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Pickin' Dandylines 


X SEEN ’em pickin’ dandylines fer greens 
today 

And it made the old pain come, 

Fer it brought Her back to me 

And the ones we picked at home. 

You don’t know how it touched me, 

Fer you can’t know what it means 
When I see ’em in the springtime 
Pickin’ dandylines fer greens. 

I used to go out with her 

Where the freshest of ’em growed; 

And I’d lay down watchin’ her 
’Neath a tree along the road. 

She’d tuck her apern up 

In a bunch between her knees; 

And peek at me beneath her bonnet 
While the bees 

’D hum around her and the meadow-larks 
would call 

And the scented, golden sunshine 
‘D seem to make it all 

Just like a church, somehow; 

And I’d softly say: 

”God bless her! God bless her!” 

That’s how I learned to pray. 

******* 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


125 


An’ when I went to pick the stone 
An’ ast the man to cut 
Some flowers on it, he wanted 

Something in the fashion. But 
l didn’t care fer all the big 

Grand things like them I seen 
Carved on his samples. I just wanted 
Something sweet and green 
And simple—some memories 

That’d make me think o’ Her. 

And I didn’t have to study much 
Decidin’ what they were. 

“Some folks likes lilies, now’’ 

Says he, in his suggestin’ way. 

But I never seen her ’mong the lilies; 

That’s where she is today. 

“How’d you like roses, then?" says he, 
“ Yeller or white or red?’’ 

“She was just a little country girl, 

And not like them,” I said. 

‘ ‘An’ tho’ she liked the roses 
And the lilies and the rest 
Yet she loved the medder daisies 
And the blue wood violets best. 
But mebbe it’d please her— 

Leastways she won’t min’— 

If you'll cut, ’way down in some comer, 
Just a little dandyline.’’ 


126 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Land of Flame 


O OWN there mid the murmuring embers 
Is a spangled, wee city of fire, 

With streets that are flickering flashes 
And many a dancing spire. 

And many a scarlet banner 

Floats over the wavering walls, 

And sharp thro’ the humming silence 
A challenging sentry calls. 

And now it has changed to an ocean, 
That writhes like a heart in pain; 
And now it’s a meadow of poppies 
And now it’s a seething plain; 

And now it’s a page from Cloudland, 
When the daytime fades to red, 

And a quivering sun is sinking 
To the rest of a flaming bed. 

But ever and always, beloved, 

As the visions are born and die, 
You, you are the Alpha of longing, 

The Omega that ends in a sigh. 
Thro' the fields of radiant blossoms 
We are wandering on to the hill; 

In the flare of the fluttering city 
One memory throngs it still. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


127 


In the glorious gates of the sunset 
You are waiting, tender and true; 
O'er the crests of the crimson billows 
My spirit is faring to you; 

The lullaby croon of the firelight 
Is whispering your dear name; 

As I gaze thro’ the spangled portals 
That lead to the Land of Flame. 



128 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


My Thanksgiving 


OME folks give thanks for riches, 
For station or for fame; 

And some for lordly acres 
Or the glamor of a name. 

I can’t be glad for glory 

Or for gallant deeds I did. 

But the Lord He knows I’m grateful 
Just for Katy and the kid. 


What’s a coffer full of money 
And a mansion’s glittering, 
Beside a cradle full of dimples 

In a palace where you’re king? 
And what are empty acres 

And the pride of ancient race 
Beside the tender smiling 
Of a love-illumined face? 


So I don’t need proclamations 
To recall the care divine 
Or tell me to be thankful 

For the blessings that are mine. 
For every day’s Thanksgiving 
And every hour doth bid 
Me praise the Lord and bless Him 
Just for Katy and the kid. 




SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


129 


When You Come Home 


® HEN you come home! Ah, let all roses bloom 
To fragrance that glad hour; and let these three, 
The gentle symbol of our Trinity, 

But typify the blossoms that perfume 
The air we breathe together, love. No gloom 
Shall shadow all the city, wondrously 
Aglow; no note be gone from melody 
That echoes thro’ Love’s twilight vesper-room 
And doth thro’ all my singing gamuts run 
In that dear voice that is my whole of song. 

No cloud shall mar unfretted skies, that dome 
My dreams and shine upon the waiting long. 

E’en so, with music, flowers and blue and sun 
I’ll greet you that great day when you come home. 



130 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Wordless Song 


H h, sweet the things my spirit sees 
In your dear eyes. 

They find my soul upon its knees 
In glad surprise. 


But sweeter is the wordless song 
Your heart doth sing; 

It riseth steadfast, clear and strong, 
Unfaltering. 


Upon the scroll of your dear cheek, 
Love, I have read 

The tenderest words you ever speak— 
The words unsaid. 


A keener ken than vigilance 
That senses parts 
Doth read the vast significance 
Of loving hearts. 

I feel the kiss you do not press 
Upon my brow; 

Each spirit touch, each soul-caress, 
Is with me now. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


131 


I see each look you turn away 
Because you fear; 

And each low word you do not say 
I hear—I hear! 




132 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Misunderstanding 


S OU did not mean to bring me Love’s unrest. 

You could not know the touch of your dear 
hand 

Could make me tremble; did not understand 
That one low word could set my clamoring breast 
A-thrill with all Life’s song. You never guessed 
The glory in your eyes was talismaned 
And naught but memories of its splendor spanned 
The gulf between the moment when you pressed 
Your parting on my brow and that glad hour 
You came again. I gave, in giving all, 

More than you meant. You did not know how dear 
You were nor dream the sweet, compelling power 
That made your tender kindness seem a call 
That, raising me from earth, brought heaven near. 

II 

But I am not yet strong enough to brook 

The mocking sweetness of the olden days. 

Some time, when I shall walk serener ways, 

God’s peace shall fall upon the storm that shook 
My spirit when you came; and I shall look 
The Great Misunderstanding in the face. 

But now the joy of that divine amaze 
That held me when it seemed my soul forsook 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


198 


Its moorings is too wistful. Nay, the wound 
Is all too red. When it no more shall smart, 

But dies to Love’s wan scar, too old for pain, 

Too pitiful for smiles; when God hath tuned 
My life to His great soothing, then my heart 
Shall never hold what is not strong again. 



134 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


My Spring 


© 


HE snow is drifting in the streets today 
And Summer—ah, does our glad Summer rest 
With all her roses faded on her breast, 
Beneath that winding sheet that mocks at May? 


And yet I know that out there on the plain 
The violets are listening for the Spring; 

And I can hear the birds that are to sing 
When shrouds have turned to vernal robes again. 

The snow is drifting ’round my heart today. 

For it is Winter, dear, when you are gone; 
And all the hours are nights without a dawn 
And all the far horizon dim and gray. 

And yet I know a little space will bring 

You back; that in your tender kiss and smile 
I shall forget this dreary winter-while, 

For when you come, my dear, it will be Spring. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


135 


God Keep You 


e 


OD keep you thro’ the silent night and guard 
Your pillow from all perils, dear; 

From dark to dawn I pray His love to ward 
And watch you, hovering ever near. 


God keep you thro' the busy day, dear heart, 
And guide your feet thro’ every chance; 
From dawn to dark may not His love depart 
Nor loose its tender vigilance. 


Nay, nay, there is no hour when I shall cease 
To supplicate His brooding care. 

All days, all nights, thro' all eternities, 

God keep you, everytime and everywhere 


136 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Thanksgiving 


X THANK thee, Life, for many, many gifts. 

For wealth of bloom and tender song that lifts 
My lot the heated highway’s path above. 

But most of all I thank thee, Life, for Love. 

I thank thee for the body’s health; for friends; 

The daily bread thy kindly bounty sends; 

For all the goodly things that are or were. 

But most of all I thank thee, Life, for Her. 

For Her I hold of good thine utter store, 

That surfeits avarice. Thou hast no more, 

No boon that wins a covet sigh from me, 

When I have that whose giving beggars thee. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


137 


Faith—Hope—You 


H 


SHADOW dimmed my spirit’s sun one day, 
A flitting wraith 

Of doubt that darkened all the laureled goal 
That crowned the glad perspective of my soul 
And then a rift of azure pierced the gray; 

The goal was garlanded with gold and bay— 
And that was Faith. 


A sunbeam flashed across my path one day. 

It seemed to ope 

A shining roadway where I saw but gloom, 

And showed where shadows hid a wealth of bloom. 
The goal was near and doubt was fled away— 

And that was Hope. 

A sweet joy came into my life one day. 

Eternal blue 

Domed all my skies and tears that I had shed 
Were kissed to beckoning rainbows overhead 
By everlasting suns. I turned away 
From bauble striving. I had learned to pray— 
And that was You. 


238 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Man of My Dreams 


D OT the hero of warrior legend; 

Not the master of leagues of land; 

Not a knight of the old romances, 

With the tournament’s prize in his hand; 
Not the prince of a magical story, 

All fair with spangles and gleams 
Is the one whom my heart hath imaged 
As the love-chosen Man of My Dreams. 

Not the lord of a lofty station, 

All grand with a princely grace; 

With the wealth of a king in his coffers 
And the pomp of an ancient race; 

Not the one who is reaping his millions 
In a harvest of golden streams; 

Is the one whom my woman’s visions 

Have seen as the Man of My Dreams. 

But a manly man, who is noble 

With naught of the pride of birth; 

Whose heart is a golden treasure 
Outshining the wealth of earth; 

Whose eyes are kind and gentle, 

Where the tender love-light beams— 

This is the prince and the knight and the hero, 
The love-chosen Man of My Dreams. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


139 


The Change of Years 


© 


ACK there in our dead yesteryear 
There was a time I shrank and feared to die; 
Before you went away; before the sky 
Was starless and the noonday drear. 


But now, if churlish Life would give 

What made me tremble, ’twere the only boon 
I begged, if I might clasp it soon. 

There now has come the time I fear to live. 


I could not spare one light caress. 

Ah, then, how shall I watch the laggard days 
Go lolling by and know that I must face 
Their aching and their emptiness? 


140 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Love’s Last Hour 


x 


’F ever this great loving is to die, 

Oh may it never linger in the throes 
Of pain. I have not strength to see it close 
Its waiting-weary eyes and hear it sigh 
For peace to come, and wonder when the sky 
Shall ope its arms of welcome and repose. 

But, bitterest pang that dying ever knows, 

I could not bear to have your pity try 
To spare me long as might be and to seek 
To show that Love can rise and walk its way 
As in the old, strong days and never fall, 

Then wipe the tears of weakness from its cheek 
And, turning toward the twilight, wait the gray 
Cold shadows heralding the end of all. 


II 


But let the last hour be the bravest, dear. 

I pray the end, if it must come, shall see 
Love, like a banqueter, die glitteringly; 
The flush of Life at floodtide; not a tear 
Upon its face; within its eyes no fear 
Or faltering; in its heart the lealty 
That uncomplains, because it was to be; 
On brave, untrembling lips a song of cheer; 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


141 


Upon its brow the feast’s unwithered wealth 
Of bloom, not falling petals; in its hand 
A brimming cup, not lees. Thus for a while 

We’ll drain with clinging lips one last long health 
To Yesterday and soul to soul we’ll stand 
A space—then front the Silence with a smile! 




142 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


My Little All 


X ASK not much for thee to give, oh Life, 

But all the world for me to have. I ask 
From off thy bending boughs one ripened joy 
That mellowed ’gainst Love’s sunny, southern wall. 

I ask from out thy boundless springs one draught 
For souls that wanly thirst. I ask, oh Life, 

From out thy gardens, full of gracious bloom 
Where sweetness riots in a waste of yield, 

One petal that my soul doth long to wear. 

From out the vast flotillas on thy seas 

One fair, white bark to save me from the storm. 

One hour from all the aeons of thy peace; 

From out thy laden chests just one rare gem 
To deck and jewel all my days. This boon 
I beg, oh Life—from out thy many, one; 

From out them all just Her—just Her. 

Thou wouldst not miss my Little All, oh Life, 
For thou art rich beyond the greed of worlds; 

And what I ask is but the fruit of one 
Ripe branch of all thy orchards; but one drop 
From depths unfathomed. Tis one unmissed grain 
From all thy garnered fields; ’tis but one bud 
From out a wilderness of bloom; one hope, 
White-sailed, from seas all snowy with thy fleets; 

A sunbeam’s dancing life from thy Nirvanas.—Nay, 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


143 


Oh Life, I do but cozen thee, as doth 
Some greedy chaffering cheater, who beguiles 
A child to think some jewel he had found 
Was but a bauble shining in the mud. 

For that one branch would strip thine orchards 
bare; 

That single measure beggar all thy granaries; 
That one fair blossom leave thy gardens weeds; 
Thy fleeted oceans would be sailless all; 

Thy store of rest, exhausted, offer pain 
No sweet surcease; thy treasure, tho' it were 
A thousand Ophirs on Golconda piled, 

Were looted if I pillaged them of Her. 



144 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Sanctity 


^nHE days have all been Sabbath since you came. 
Beloved, I have kept them sacredly. 

The things you said have been my litany. 

You touch me and I pray. I speak your name 
And kneel before a shrine whereat the blame 
Of all unworthy of your thought of me 
Is purged to loving's utter purity. 

No weakness lives in that refining flame. 

A book you mark is like some Holy Word; 

A flower you gave me or a gown you praise 
Is tender with the mem’ry of caress 

Or smile. Your voice becomes an anthem, heard 
While I was walking Love's cathedral ways— 

All Life takes on a new-born sacredness. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


146 


Love’s Immutable 


© ELOVED, love me not for any grace 

Of form that I may have; the random hue 
Of tresses nor the eyes of brown or blue 
That always brim to see your dear, dear face. 

I ask a love that builds against the days 

When every charm that Beauty ever knew 
Shall fall like rose-leaves, one by one and you 
Shall find of all this comeliness no trace 
For even Memory to feed on. Dear, 

If Love can make the soul be beautiful, 

Then is there fairness ’neath my body’s fair 
That shall not wither when the utter year 
Hath come. And loved for mine immutable 
My soul shall Love’s immortal beauty wear. 


146 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Consolation 


O EAR heart, when outward sunshine mocks the 
night 

Within, I turn to you, as to a star 
That glorifies that darkness from afar. 

And with your touch there comes a gracious light 
That makes my noonday fair with healing might. 

And when the day is black, to match the war 
Within, and all the fiercer ’gainst the bar 
Of Life I beat, more swift my spirit’s flight 
To You, to whom the sunshine and the storm 
Alike dispatch me. In your soul I find 
The brightness that doth all the day's exceed, 

And great sereneness of God's nights, all warm 
With something He hath done to make you kind 
And make your kindness answer to my need. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


14? 


My Longing 


^nTUST to feel my heart thrill with the old 
wonderment 

At the tender lovelight on your face; 

J ust to hear the low sigh of your utter content 
In the peace of the old embrace. 


Just to feel your dear head nestle under my kiss 
As a tired bird flutters to rest; 

Just to know once again the infinite bliss 
Of an hour by your loving caressed. 


Just to revel again in the radiant whole 
Of the prodigal loving, whose light 
Is flooding my life and my heart and my soul— 
I am longing and longing tonight. 


148 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Infinite Shadow 


m 


k Y window looks out on the ocean 
As the tired day creeps to its rest; 

I am watching the ebb and the flowing 

Like the rise and the fall of your breast. 
Beloved, I dream you are looking 

Down, down thro’ the hovering skies, 
And the gray of the brooding even 

Is the faith in your trusting gray eyes. 


I can see on a luminous easel, 

In a cloud-painted framing of red, 

Your face, like the face in a picture, 

With the westering shine on your head. 
The last dying gleam of the sunset 
Is wreathing your wavering hair 
With a withering garland of poppies 

Like the ones that you loved to wear. 

There, laid on an altar of roses, 

Is the hope that was born of you; 

A radiant, aureoled vision 

Too tender and sweet to come true. 
And there, in a shadowy haven, 

Where the shores of the sky begin, 
Wistfully riding at anchor, 

Is our ship that can never come in. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


149 


And there, in a sheaf of snow blossoms, 
Bound up with a ribbon of fleece, 
Are the lilies I laid on your bosom, 

That was still with a mighty peace. 
And the wan, long kiss of the twilight, 
That is bidding the day farewell, 

Is the wan, long kiss of our parting, 
When the Infinite Shadow fell. 



150 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Double ’n Tender 


© 


HAT folly tricked my girlish brain 
To think I ever loved you so? 
That I could give you one brief pain 
Is bliss I never thought to know. 


I did not mean—I thought you knew— 
That little whisper: “Sweetheart, yes 
The random words that wounded you 
Gave me a double happiness. 


I f you were breathing nothings sweet 
An hour were like an endless day; 
A year were but a moment fleet 
If you were only far away. 


I'll long and wait, till life is done, 

The hour that sunders every tie. 
The season that shall make us one 
Will be the hour I long to die. 

If hand in hand we went thro' life 

I ’d pray for death to claim its own. 
I 'd know no fretting care or strife 
If I should live the hours alone. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


151 


I’ll never know a moment’s peace 
Until the grave doth us divide. 
If e'er this love of yours shall cease 
My longing will be satisfied. 


Note—This doggerel is of possible interest only becaase it is a bit of trick 
verse. Read the quatrains as couplets—first and third lines, then second and 
fourth—the meaning is somewhat altered. 


152 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Two Loves 


iTfi ERE I a king, thou just a beggar-maid 
\J[y That weary to my court had strayed, 
All travel-marred with wandering; 

I'd robe thee from my purple looms; 

I’d garland thee with rarest blooms; 

Then, mid a kingdom’s trumpeting, 
I’d lift thee to my throne and thou 
Shouldst wear a crown upon thy brow, 
Were I a king. 


II 

Were I a queen, thou just a minstrel gay 
That came to sing a random lay 
Or haply seeking fairer scene, 

I’d leave my throne and, casting down 
My scepter and my lonely crown, 

Thy loving heart my sole demesne, 
I’d make thee king and lord instead, 

And proudly serve thee as thy maid, 
Were I a queen. 


A Groujf of Songs 









X 















t 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


155 


Just As You Used to Do 


I 


M dreaming a dream in the twilight 
And the years roll away like a tide. 
The silver creeps back to the golden 
And you are again at my side. 

We wander thro’ sweet, sunny meadows 
Where the snowiest daisies grew; 

I am hearing you saying: “ I love you!’ 
Just as you used to do. 

Refrain 


Just as you used to do, dear heart, 
In the daisy-days of yore. 

I hear you softly whisper 

The old, sweet words once more 
Your loving arms are ’round me, 
Your clasp so strong and true; 

I hear you say: “ I love you!” 

Just as you used to do. 


And then I awake from my vision, 
Awake to my lone unrest. 

The daisies change to the lilies 

I laid on your dear, dead breast. 
But always and ever at twilight 
I’ll dream of the joy I knew; 

I’ll hear you saying: “I love you!” 
Just as you used to do. 


166 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


A Poem and An Answer 


X AM reading a beautiful poem 

As sweet as the breath of a rose; 

A poem two people are living 

In a world that is full of prose. 

A poem set to a rythm 

As soft and as pure as a sigh; 
Where hearts in tune are the metre 
And “you” doth rhyme with “ I.” 

I am reading a beautiful answer 
To a sum that is hard to do; 

For many are making the error 
That one plus one are two. 

But here in this beautiful answer, 

So sweet when the problem is done 
This answer two people are living, 

One plus one are one. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


157 


Sunshine and Shadow 


X MET you in the sunshine 
Beneath a sky of blue; 

My soul was wrapped in midnight 
And every flower was rue. 

I heard no gentle answer 

To make my heart to sing; 

And Sorrow poised above me 
The blackness of its wing. 

I met you in the shadows. 

The hours were golden dreams; 
My heart was bathed in dayshine; 

I dreamed Tomorrow’s dreams. 

I read a glad replying 

That made your eyes so dear; 
Not all earth’s beating tempests 
Could make the darkness drear. 

Dear heart, ’tis night without you, 
My requiem or psalm; 

With you all deserts gardens, 

My wilderness or palm; 

A palace were a prison 
If I must walk alone; 

With you, beloved, near me 
A cell would be a throne. 


158 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Where We Missed the Way 


g 


I 

H, love, if we could only live again 
The happy, olden years, 

We would not walk the bitter way 
That only led to tears. 

And we’d recall the words we said, 

The words we did not mean, 

Down by the mill, where the roads divide 
And the river rolls between. 

One path led on to the busy town 
And one to a quiet lane; 

One led to love and happiness; 

We chose the road to pain. 

The waters tried to tell us, dear, 

Out there in the twilight gray; 

We would not hear or understand— 
That’s where we missed the way. 


REFRAIN. 

I would not bend my stubborn pride; 

You would not bid me stay. 

And the romping stream grew still and sighed 
At a great mistake that day; 

Down by the mill, where the twilight died 
And the golden turned to gray; 

Down by the mill, where the roads divide 
And where we missed the way. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


159 


II 

I longed for one forgiving word, 

You would not utter, dear; 

The falling waters drowned a sigh 
And the shadows hid a tear. 

In the glare and noise of the busy town 
I dream of the quiet lane; 

The shadows fall, again I hear 
The water’s low refrain. 

The mill-stream sings in the afterglow, 
As the golden turns to red; 

And echoes the music of happy hearts, 
And babbles of dreams long dead. 

I feel your sweet, forgiving kiss, 

Hear all you would not say; 

A nd then I wake and, waking, see 
That we have missed the way. 




i«o 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Day We Said Goodbye 

X LOVED when first I met you, 

Down where the daisies grow; 

I loved you when I kissed you 
A little hour ago. 

I loved you at the dawning 

Of the lovelight in your eye; 

But I think you were the dearest 
The day we said goodbye. 

I loved you when I met you 
Amid the song of birds; 

I loved you when we wandered 
In a golden afterwards; 

I’ve loved you always, dearest, 

I’ll love you till I die. 

But I think you were the dearest 
The day we said goodbye. 

And when with fond compassion 
You came to me again, 

The old mistake forgotten, 

Forgiven pride and pain, 

Dear heart, God knows I loved you 
But in your low, sweet sigh 
I knew you were the dearest 
The day we said goodbye. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


161 


The Wonderful Something 


G 


'HERE'S a wonderful, 
thing 


wonderful Some- 


That shines in the glance of an eye; 
That throbs in the thrill of a heart-beat 
And speaks in a happy sigh; 

That tuneth two hearts to one purpose 
And maketh one heart of two; 

That smiles when the sky is a gray one 
And smiles when the sky is blue. 


A Something that maketh a palace 

Out of four little walls and a prayer; 

A Something that seeth a garden 
In one little flower that is fair; 

Without it no garden hath fragrance 

Tho' it holdeth the wide world’s blooms; 
Without it a palace a prison, 

With cells for banqueting rooms. 


And ever and ever and ever 

As the years flow on like a tide, 

May the peace of this wonderful Something 
In the hearts that we cherish abide. 
This Something that halloweth sorrow 
And stealeth the sting from care; 

This Something that maketh a palace 
Out of four little walls and a prayer. 


162 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


If I Could Just Tell You I Cared 


© HE day would be gladder and brighter, 
The twilight lose half of its pain, 

Life’s heavy load would be lighter 

And the dawn would be welcome again, 
If women could only be honest, 

Never faltered or wanly despaired; 

If I could just rest on your shoulder 

And tell you, dear heart, that l cared. 


The songs of the birds would be sweeter 
If I could just whisper it, dear; 
God’s wonderful world be completer 
If we could just be sincere. 

I would tell you the whole glad story, 
Sob it out on your breast, if I dared. 
And living would have a new meaning 
If I could just tell you I cared. 


In the Shadow of the Pines 








SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


165 


The Little and the Large 


shall affront the mountains, who deride 
The columbine ? Come hither, pigmy man. 

And learn thy nothingness. Thy little life 
Takes not one hand’s breadth from these heights. 
These calm, rebuking flowers outlive thee, age 
On age. Thy puny wars, thy tiny strifes, 

Are but one random, idle leaf that fell 
In last night’s canon storm. Thou thinkest earth 
Doth bate its breath to watch thee battle; that 
The little ripple thou dost make doth fret 
The farther shore. But in these vast retreats 
Thy loudest din is but the breathing of the pines; 

Thy clash and clangor but one zephyr faint 

That stirs the smallest blossom on the brim 

Of these cool mountain streams—Peace! Peace! oh, man, 

Let be thy clamor. Thou dost disturb 

The fair, sweet concord of these harmonies. 

For when the curtain falls upon thy little scene 
And when the vastest thing thy hand hath made 
Shall be the litter of a child's play-hour, 

These peaks shall rear their heads in God’s fair sky 
As thro’ the aeons gone; these flowers shall bloom 
Till Time shall die, to shame thee, boasting one, 

With their sweet oneness with the Mighty Plan. 


166 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Mountain Call 


<3 


HE mountains call me and the city way 
Doth wind a trail thro' needled canon pines. 
The street stones blossom into columbines 
And harebells. Men take sudden root and sway 
To aspens, like to Daphnes fabled day. 

The steeples lose their book-computed lines 
And waver into peaks and on them shines 
The spangled glamor of the purple, gray 
And gold of mountain afternoons. The steel 
And granite piles that hem horizons in 
Become Sierras stretching toward the plain. 

I raise mine eager hands. I long to kneel 
Amid the hush that falls upon the city's din— 
Then all is steeples, piles and streets again 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


16*7 


California 


O LYMPIAN land, where all divinities, 

Forsaking Thrace, have reared another shrine, 
All patron deities, save Mars, are thine. 

Pomona ladens all the luscious trees 

And Flora sprays each scented, random breeze 

With perfumes as from fountains filled with wine. 
Here Bacchus, lord of every purpling vine, 

Doth hold his merry hillside revelries. 

Here Ceres binds her sheaves and Venus smiles 
In eyes of many hues and Hymen wreathes 
A bloom for every brow. Here Pan might roam 
Adown the green of mighty forest aisles. 

Here Peace from brooding symbol branches 
breathes 

And Neptune harnesses the champing foam. 


168 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


At Emma Crawford’s Grave 


(Note—On the summit of Red Mountain, Manitou, Colorado, Emma 
Crawford was buried many years ago, pursuant to a request made long before 
her death from tuberculosis, shortly before she was to have been married.) 


^\HOU sleepest well, oh sleeper whom I know 
But in thy story, infinitely sad. 

I drop my tear upon thy pillow, strew 
My flowers upon thy bridal bed. The great 
Of earth had ne’er sarcophagus like thine— 

These mountains carved in wondrous heraldry 
By heaven's mighty chiseling; thy sheet 
The snows as spotless as thy soul; the bloom 
Of sweet, remembrant flowers, like these I lay 
This fair June time. What grander requiem 
Than God’s great diapason of His peaks, 

Whose gamut runs from sob to song? What pomp 
Is like this vast cathedral of the sky? 

What censers like the pines? What eulogy 
Were like these stones, that glisten as with tears, 
By strangers laid with sighs above thy sleep? 

Ah, sw'eet as violets the dream that died 
With thee. Thou thoughtst upon a gentler bed 
To lie; that orange bloom would wreathe thy brow. 
Thou dreamedest a touch less hard than e’en the 
snow 

And flowers—thy love’s. And now the end is here— 
This stone that bears thy name—The end? Ah, no! 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


169 


Thy dream shall live when mountains are but dust; 
And when the final shine and snow have paid 
Their tribute to thy rest, thy story then 
Shall but begin. Against that telling vast 
I give thee peace, oh sleeper, give thee peace— 

The peace of mountain, snow and sun—and God! 



170 SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Lesson of the Lowly 

X GO not only to God’s templed hills 

To gaze on His omnipotence. Each blade 
Of grass and daisy in the spangled field 
Doth tell of power as vast as that which carved 
The castled peaks or blazed the canon ways, 
Like paths to lead the desert-weary soul 
From wilderness to where He is. 

Within the limpid sparkle of the dew 
That trembles like a tear upon the cheek 
Of dawn a thousand fleeted oceans roll. 

All firmaments are in the prisoned star 
That shines within one bluebell’s little heart. 
All gardens grow in one red rose. I see 
God’s grace in patient, humble hearts, in lives 
Lived not within the blaze of human fame, 

As well as in the mighty souls that rise 
Above the wonder-gazing plains of earth. 

His spirit kindles lowly ones and fires 
The lofty; speaks in gentleness and with 
The trumpet tongue; irradiates the life 
That loves, like violets, the common soil 
And lives that flame like meteors across 
The sky and beacon mortal firmaments 
Like stars. For God is littleness and great, 
Stupendous and minute. He cheers, astounds, 
Inspires and soothes. He writes His majesty 
Upon the lily and the lily life, 

His tenderness upon the mighty page 
Of peaks and souls that tower mountain high. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


171 


Lines to a Burro 


are ugly, little burro, 

■5^ But you calmly tread the furrow 
That your master marks for you. 
And somehow there’s a beauty in it, • 
A lesson for each plodding minute 
I would have you teach me too, 
Little burro. 

You’re a stoic, little burro, 

And the lashes of the furrow 

Fall but lightly on your back. 
Perhaps your way is better; 

You help me bear the pain of fetter 
And ease the grinding of the rack, 
Little burro. 

You are patient, little burro, 

Tho’ the high and stony furrow 
Leads to only food and stall. 

But you show the way beyond you, 
Past the furrow where I found you, 
And your lesson teaches all, 

Little burro. 


172 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Pure in Heart 


D ONE but the pure may, unashamed, 
Behold what Thou hast made. 

How shall they brave Thy stars or “face 
Thy morning unafraid” ? 

How hear the waking song of dawn, 

The anthem of Thy noon ? 

The glad refrain of all Thy days, 

Thy twilight's nesting croon? 

How shall the evil-loving heart, 

The heart where hate abides, 

Regard the murmur of Thy pines, 

The paean of Thy tides ? 

The sweet rebuke of violets, 

Thy mountains’ melodies, 

The hymn of leaves, the faith of birds, 
Thy lilies and Thy seas? 

I pray mine ears may never close 
To aught Creation sings; 

But may they ever be attuned 
To all Thine utterings. 

And may I never look accused 
On aught that shameth me. 

But lift mine unconvicted gaze 

From Thy great works to Thee. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


173 


To a Fish on a Hook 


X PITY thee. Why didst thou snatch at gleams 
That shone more brightly than thy native food ? 
Thou couldst have sought thine instinct’s duller 
good 

And still have sported in thy tuneful streams. 

Of what avail the fairer thing that seems 

Thine element, when water beetles should 
Suffice thee and in their sufficing would 
Have left thee free? Of what avail the beams 
That only ape the real ? Nay, I chide 
Thee thoughtlessly, for thou hast paid thy debt 
To folly. I have oft been lured like thee. 

I oft have caught at dreams that did but hide 
Within their fairness barbs of sharp regret; 

And we are fellows in one misery. 








The Story of theWinels 


















SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


111 


The North Wind 


O H warrior wind, I love to feel 

Thy sweep that girds me as with steel; 
The brave, strong breath of sun and snow, 
From far north climes whence thou dost blow. 
The sun that stirs men’s hearts to song, 

And snow that builds their courage strong. 

I breathe a finer, nobler air; 

I think high things; I long to dare; 

My hope doth mount on stalwart wing; 

My heart the hero-song doth sing; 

I love the true and noble then; 

I love my God and fellowmen; 

I love my home and native land; 

I draw the patriot’s flaming brand; 

I leap into the battle’s tide; 

I die the death that heroes died; 

Oh warrior wind, I love to feel 

Thy breath, that girds me as with steel. 


178 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The South Wind 


O H dreamy South wind, blowing 
As soft as lovers’ sighs, 

From dark-eyed homeland, glowing 
With light of lovers’ eyes; 

I feel at thy soft coming 

All joys of Love’s surprise. 

Thou art my loved one’s breathing, 
The perfume of a tress; 

The flowers her white brow wreathing. 
The flutter of her dress; 

Her voice, her smile, her laughter— 
Herself in one caress. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


179 


The East Wind 


X LOVE thee not, oh fretful East wind, 
From the isles of fronded palms; 
From the land of languorous beauties 
And the pall of mighty calms. 

Thou tellest me of painted houris 
And of magic and of spells; 

Of the paradise of senses, 

Where the heavens are like hells 
Thou blowest over troubled waters, 

Laving spicy island home; 

Thou bringest to my soul un-resting 
And thou stirrest hearts to roam. 
Thou waftest to me Orient stories 
Of the wondrous marvels done 
In the land of genii and magic, 

’Neath the quiv’ring Arab sun. 

My spirit craves a nobler calmness 
Than thou whisperest to me; 

Oh, impatient, fretful East wind. 

Thy license is not liberty. 


180 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The West Wind 


0 


UT thou, oh West wind, full of promise, 
Like sounds of harvest horn, 

Calling over fields of plenty 

And the garnered bins of corn. 

Thou blowest from the El Dorados 
Where the siren sands are gold; 

Thou bringest me the mountains’ message 
And the tales the tides have told; 

Bidding me take freshened courage 
For the burdens I must bear. 

And with thy breath of promise on me 
All the days to be are fair. 

Thou tellest me of brave adventures, 

Deeds of daring, high desire; 

And ever on my spirit’s altar 

Burneth Hope’s bright vestal fire. 

All thy days are full of hoping, 

Every bark is anchored fast, 

Every voyage hath a harbor 

Where my sails shall furl at last. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


181 


Sunshine Farther On 


© 


HE mountain’s base is wrapped in gray 
And chill and cheerless is the way, 

As slow I tread the shadowed trail 
That stretches upward, still and pale. 

But as I rise I see it glow 

With what seemed cloud and mist below; 

And as I near the summit sheer 

The veil-wreaths rise and disappear; 

And soon I stand amid the dawn 
Of warmth and sunshine farther on. 


Oh, soul, that beats the shadowed air 
About the base of summit fair, 

Be brave and patient. Mists obscure 
The lower way. But hold secure 
The higher path. For thou must rise 
On toiling wings to fairer skies. 

And tho’ the way seem dull and gray 
It lightens toward the summit day; 
Thou soon shalt stand amid the dawn 
That flowers in sunshine farther on. 


182 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Cycle of the Hills 


X KNOW not when I love the mountains most; 

For they are always beautiful. But when 
They doff their slumber robes of white, wherein 
They passed the night-time of the year, and don 
The morning garb of Spring, tis then, methinks, 
They are the fairest work that God hath wrought; 
Arrayed in all their finery of green, 

With brooks for laughter, breath of pines 
For perfume, canon breezes for a sigh, 

The restful silences for thoughtfulness; 

With fern and vine and flower for gems, 

The sunshine for the coquetry of smiles; 

The clouds for frowns and showers for sudden tears. 

But when the Summer’s riper splendor falls 
Upon them and they wear the purple maze, 

The richer hues of their resplendent life, 

The glory of their noon, then they are yet 
More fair. There is a glad, free ring to song 
Of rippling streams, an unleashed happiness, 

A rich content that riots in the joy 
Of living; and the chill aroma of the Spring 
Is mulled into the sweeter perfume still 
Of full-spiced Summer. 

But when Autumn paints 
Its glory on the hills and they are garbed 
In robes no loom but Nature’s e’er could weave, 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


188 


Ah, then no mortal brush can vie with them; 

No Orient fabric match the tapestry 

Of red and gold and brown and lingering green, 

The soft, dissolving purple of the haze. 

The dying blue of Summers limpid dream. 

They burst into an utter riot of their wealth 
Upon my thralled senses. Just to live 
In sight of that supernal splendor were 
A boon. And when they throw about their heads 
The white mantilla of the mist, methinks 
That God Himself hath done His all. And then 
The day doth age and in the later fall 
I wake some morn to find the primal snow, 

Like drifted silver on the temples of 
The year, hath ermined Autumn’s robes. 

And then the Winter comes and stainless white 
Doth shroud the sleeping Spring that is to be 
Again. No eye can gaze on that serene 
Stupendous purity and not look up 
Unto the God that made them. There they stretch 
Like alabaster beaches on which break 
The oceans of the clouds; so pure and white 
That I forget that just beyond them lies 
The spotted world of men. It seems to me 
That only swan-boats of the Lohengrins 
In heart, or barks wherein the Galahads 
Of earth go longing for the Holy Blood 
Should ever touch upon those shining shores 
And only should the white of soul, that hate 
All vileness, dwell upon them. So, oh God, 


184 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


I thank Thee for the mountains’ cycle-day; 

The twittering morn, the golden zenith’s spell, 
The nestling twilight of the waning fall, 

The rest-time of the winter-night—All, all 
Are passing fair. ’Tis not for man to draw 
His little lines between Thy green and gold, 
Thy spangled autumns and Thy throned snows. 
Whatever Thou hast wrought is wonderful. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


185 


Mountain Waters 


0 TERNAL fountains of the hills, thy song 
Is sweeter to me far than any choir 
Of human singers; nobler than the lyre 
Apollo struck with tuneful hand. And long, 
Aye, long beyond the time when every strong, 
Pure note that thrills the fine desire 
Of mortal gamuts—music of the mire— 
Hath died upon the air, thy strains shall throng 
Upon my life and rest it with the peace 
Not all the minstrels of the world could bring 
My soul is like some fragrant pool of thine 
That garners all the songs thy waters sing. 

I cannot spare the softest harmonies 
That fall like spray upon this heart of mine. 


186 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


My First Mountain Trout 


illy done, I grant. Thou needst not look 
As in reproach at me. I feel the blame 
Of every gasp of thine. I feel its shame; 

Nay more, the very pain of thy sharp hook 
That snared thee, floundering, from thy mossy nook. 
Thine every flutter tells me that the same 
Great love of living thrills thy tiny frame 
As mine. Thou lovest thine unceasing brook, 

Thy shadowed pools. And so, because thou art 
My first—and small beside—I give thee back 
All thou dost gasp for—all thy life and light, 

Thy sun and shade and sky and cloud. This 
smart 

Will cease; thou wilt forget this little wrack. 

I grudge thee not—I have another bite! 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


187 


Shadow and Sun 


O NE peak, mayhap the one I mount, 
Is glad with spangled light; 

And one that riseth far ahead 
Is hid in shadow-night. 

Nay, oft the summit that I seek 
Is dim with fearsome gloom, 
While all around me bursts the day, 
Like gardens, into bloom. 

One life is bright and gay with joy, 
One way serene with peace; 

And one is wan with many thorns, 
And winds toward Calvaries. 

If on my path Thou pourest, Lord, 
Thy favors like a flood. 

Oh teach me pity for the pain 
That palls another’s road. 

If o’er the toilsome course I tread 
I grope, tho’ it be day. 

Oh make me thank Thee for the sun 
That gilds a brother’s way. 


188 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Mountain Rest 


e 


OD send to every hot and tossing heart 
The rest of one dear canon night. To leave 
The teeming haunts of men; that world all scarred 
With furrows that its tears have plowed; that world 
Of hatred, discord, ugliness and din, 

Where songs are heard so rarely and where men 
Stare, dimly moved, if only one sweet strain 
Of higher things doth steal through counting rooms. 
To leave this tragedy of petty things. 

This mighty racing after baubles, this 
Supreme, pathetic folly of the mart, 

And climb, some golden afternoon, the trail 
To glade and dell and slowly see the world 
Of mortal things recede and disappear. 

To walk through all the wonders of the hills 
And stop to pluck a flower or gather here 
A cone and there a filigree of fern 
Or moss and here again a wonder-form 
Of rock; to feast the eye on some green stretch, 

The silver ribbon of some prowling stream, 

Some vista of the vines, some view of plain 
Behind, some castled crag or pinnacle 
Of peak before. To watch the smaller life 
Around; and while I draw aside to drain 
A limpid draught from babbling canon brook 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


189 


And rest beside some mighty stone and gaze 
In awe into some vast upheaval’s heart. 

The butterfly with deftest poise of wing 
Distills the honey of a trail side bloom 
And with the pert akimbo of his head 
A chipmunk dares me with a saucy trust 
In his immunity of fleeter foot. 

And then to rise and go my way until 
I reach the spot where Nature hath prepared 
Nay, not a guest room, for me, but it seems 
A chamber that my tired, unquiet soul 
Doth claim as mine, reserved until I came 
Again from many wanderings. ’Tis hung 
With all the tapestry of vine and fern. 

The windows open thro' the fragrant pines 
On endless vistas of magnificence. 

The ceiling is the canopy of blue 
And figured with the tracery of sky 
And cloud. The couch—ah, who shall say how 
sweet 

The fine aroma of the needles is; 

How soft the perfumed tangle I arrange 
As twilight shadows fall. No crown e’er knew 
So fair a pillow; ne’er did palace down 
Invite to such repose. And on its knees 
In this dim chapel grove—God’s primal fane— 
My soul its grateful orisons doth say, 

The while the silence seems to pray and no 
Profaning sound is heard to mar that holy calm 
But nature’s mighty breathing and the throb 
Of her great heart. 


190 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


And now the taper stars 
Are lighting me to slumber and I draw 
The darkness round me like a coverlet. 

1 feel my Mother, Nature, tuck me in. 

I feel the mother-bosom rise and fall; 

Her cradle song doth lullaby my heart: 

The restful wash of some cold mountain stream, 
Perchance the tinkle of a valley bell, 

The rustle of the viewless wings of night, 

The drowsy leap of far-off waterfall, 

The goodnight of the nested birds, the hum 
Of crooning insect worlds, the thousand sounds 
Of Nature's slumber time, the vast refrain 
Of vibrant silences. 

And now—and now, 

At peace upon my mother’s breast at last, 

With tender mother-murmurs in my ears, 

With all the white regatta of the clouds 
Before me as I watch them sailing on 
.And with forgetfulness of men within 
My heart, the moonlight softly falls upon 
My closing eyes and kisses me to rest 
.And happy dreams. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


191 


To a Cactus 


X LOVE thee for the lessons thou dost teach, 
Oh cactus, clinging to the mountain lone, 

In places fair, vain things disdain to own. 

I love thee for the sermons thou dost preach. 
Could I the height of thy calm meekness reach 
I too would clasp unmurmuring the stone; 
My soul should never weakly yearn or moan 
It knew no fairer soil. Oh, I beseech 
Thee, cactus, clinging, as the heart to hope, 
Teach me the lesson of a great content 
That gives to souls unsatisfied surcease 

Of aching. I would grow upon what slope 
My life is planted; bear thy blossom, sent 
To flower an unrepining with its peace. 



192 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Ascension 


O OWN in the darkened valley 
The path was dim and pale ; 
I groped amid the shadow 
Of rock and winding trail. 

But higher up the mountain 
My vision clearer grew; 

And slow at last a meaning 
Unrolled before my view. 

And when I reached the summit 
I saw where each way led; 
And all the tangled pattern 

Was clear before me spread. 

Down in the darkened valley 
We often grope in vain; 

But to the soul ascending 

God s purposes grow plain. 

And on the topmost summits, 
The lofty vision scans 
The mighty view unfolding 
The network of His plans. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


193 


My Little Mountain Stream 

X ’VE seen thee in full many moods, 
My little mountain stream; 

I’ve caught the spirit soft that broods 
In shadow and in gleam. 

I've seen thee in thy calm content, 

Thy gambol and thy play; 

I've seen thee in thy merriment— 

And I have seen thee pray! 

I ’ve slaked my soul at thy cool brink 
And in thy waters laved; 

I’ve found in thy renewing drink 
The peace my spirit craved. 

Ah, sweet the limpid cup I’ve quaffed; 

No mortal fount like thine; 

No beaded brew like this cold draught 
Nor grape on sunny vine. 

I’ve seen thee in thine angry hours; 

I '■ve heard thine evening hymn; 

I’ve seen thee softly kiss the flowers 
That grew upon thy brim. 

I’ve seen thee dashed in foam and spray 
And sleeping in thy pools, 

Obeying ever, day by day, 

The mighty law that rules. 


194 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Now thou art fluttering, 

In haste to be gone; 

And now thou art muttering 
At fretting of stone. 

Now thou art hurrying 
As tho’ to a tryst; 

And now thou art worrying 
As tho’ ’twould be missed. 

And now thou art quiet, 

While twilight shadows brood; 

And stilled is the riot 

Of thy waterfall mood. 

And now I hear thee croon. 

Goodnight, my mountain stream 

Thy rest-hour cometh soon; 

And now I hear thee dream. 

Anon I see thee wake, 

Thy morning tribute pay; 

Thy sweet obeisance make 
To Life and sun and day. 

And now thou art dashing 
All joyous along; 

And dancing and splashing 
In laughter and song. 

And now thou art chattering 
In roysterous glee; 

As tho’ all the mattering 

Of the world were in thee; 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


196 


And merrily rollicking 

And teasing the flowers, 
In boisterous frolicking 

Thro' long, happy hours. 


196 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


A Lesson 


up upon the mountain 

\ _X A tiny blossom grew; 

With soft, sweet, golden petals 
And little heart of blue; 

A hot and rocky cranny 
The only soil it knew. 


It did not ever murmur 

Or long for fertile loam; 

But glorified the crevice 

Where God had made its home. 

It had His rain and sunshine, 

His sky for fretted dome. 

No life is all so barren 

But some green spot is there; 

Some memory its perfume, 

Some hope to make it fair 

And shed its sweet, aroma 
Around it like a prayer. 

And yet another lesson 

That I have not forgot: 

We each may shed a glory 
About some desert spot, 

And feel a new contentment, 
Whatever be our lot. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


197 


Peak Upon Peak 

X CLIMB a steep, ascending hill 
And find another higher still; 

I mount again and o’er them all 
The mountain towers grim and tall. 

And toiling on, at last I gain 
The monarch of the spreading plain. 

I reach its crest and there—the peak, 
Whose snow-crowned summit sheer I seek. 

Exultant with sustaining hope 
I climb the final rocky slope ; 

With weary feet and rock-torn hand 
Upon the barren verge I stand. 

Alas, the point I thought the last, 

Though higher than all others passed. 

Is but the footstool for the new 
And vaster heights that meet my view. 

And yet I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou 
Hast fixed so far the farthest brow 
Of all the heights I may desire; 

That though I may to peaks aspire; 

Aye, though my goal may touch the skies, 
Yet I may high and higher rise. 

For as I climb my soul doth see 
That all ascending is to Thee. 


198 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Pike’s Peak 


=nHOU western sphinx, that dost from age to age 
J Across the vistaed plain look grand, serene, 
O’er-cresting lesser heights as some great soul 
Doth top the little lives that live below. 

The vast vitality of thine endless days 
Mocks all mutation. On thy storied head 
The universal storms beat all as light 
As summer winds against the flowers; the bolts 
Of all the tempests but a finger laid 
Against thy granite face. What are to thee 
The harvests and the sowings of the world ? 

The puny deeds that fill the air with fame? 

What matters it what man shall rule, w r hat 
throne 

Shall crumble, on what banner victory 
Shall nestle at the last? When all the sands, 
Each grain an age, in Time’s great glass are 
drained 

How shall thine unretarded life be told? 

What vast notation mark thine aw^ful span ? 

For on thee as upon some mighty dial 
Are told the aeons of great Nature's life. 

When all the worlds that live above thee die 
Thou still shalt look across the plain, 

As young as in the springtime of thy days. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


199 


For thou dost live with Nature's breath and while 
Her heart doth beat thou shalt not pass away. 
What is that secret vast that thou couldst tell 
Had we but wit to read thy woundrous scroll 7 
To me thou art the symbol and the type 
Of this our mortal life. About thy base 
The common air that many people breathe, 
Unperfumed with the scent of higher things, 

The plains that lie beyond veiled by those walls 
That hem them in, that seek not nor aspire. 

But when we rise, ah then, a wider sweep, 

A broader view of men; God's plan unfurled 
Like splendid banners with inscriptions fine 
And all the world is full of purpose vast. 

Then higher still, each bar to vision down, 
Each veil removed, no peak to intervene, 

We get the mighty insight into all 
And stand with Nature’s hand in ours, at one 
With all that makes the valley fair, at one 
With all that makes the wondrous mountains 
grand. 

And then Life's timberline, where green 
things die, 

The danger-line of souls. Let him turn back 
Who seeth not afar, whose ear is closed 
To any note God’s diapason sounds. 

To weak souls Life seems dead at such a height, 
All hope entombed, no sun in any sky. 

But on the soul that hath the vision vast, 

That reads the message writ in rock and cloud, 
Bursts the magnificence of endless stone, 


200 SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 

The beauty of the bare, eternal green 
Of treelessness, sweet music of the void, 

The silence vibrant with a Still, Small Voice. 

I thank Thee, Lord, for heights. They 
teach me this: 

The mightiest marvels of great Nature’s hands 
Are but the stepping stones to Nature’s God. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


201 


To a Trout Fly 


B SSUME not worth for all thy speckled gain. 

Tis but the trophy of thy beckoning. 

Thou art a sparkle mere, a gaud, a thing 
Of coward shine, a cruel and cunning bane. 

Thou art a glitter only that doth feign 

Reward and pay thy having with a sting. 

The honest worms, with all their dullness, bring 
At least fulfillment of desire with pain. 

And yet thou hast thy larger type—some hope 
That bigger fishes bite at; snaring hearts 
And lives, as thou dost hook thy littler prey. 

Men often choose the hollow gleam and grope 
And gasp, caught with deceiving’s shining arts. 
Thy smaller victims are as wise as they. 


The Chipmunks 


X SET my lunch beside a stream, 

Where languorous aspens softly dream; 
Where drowsy waters murmur by 
And where the sunlight seems to sigh 
In very peace. My idle line 
Floats all unheeded in the shine; 

And round about the chipmunks frisk, 

And, counting well each little risk, 

And darting close and closer, they 
Now scamper fearfully away, 

Anon return to where I sit 
And pounce upon some random bit 
I throw to them. Then bolder grown 
They brave the peril, all unknown, 

Of human wiles; and closer still 
They venture wistfully, until 
Taught by their instinct’s subtler laws, 

They rest their tiny velvet paws 
Upon my hand and nibble there 
Their feast, their ever welcome share 
Of all I have. I love to see 
Them munching so, confidingly 
Upon contented haunches, as 
They dine in saucy happiness. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


203 


I love to see them deftly poise 
Some dainty bit. Those toothsome joys 
Are dear to me as them. For they 
Are part of all the happy day. 

1 would not harm one striped hair 
Of any pretty scamperer. 

And thus, beside the tuneful stream, 
Where languourous aspens softly dream, 
And drowsy waters murmur by, 

We feast together, ’munks and I. 



204 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


My Heart a Harp Becomes 


m 


,Y heart a harp becomes these happy hours 


What strings they will, content if I may keep 
One chord of all, one small, blue-hearted flower’s 
Soft, unforgotten strain. The sunshine pours 
A flood of melody. The waters sleep 
Between their quiet brims. The blossoms 
heap 

About me all their stores. The mountain towers 
Above those treasures like a sentinel. 

The tiny life of insect whirrs and hums 
Around me and the larger day of bird 

And animal doth weave its wider spell; 

And all the world’s discordant air becomes 
A sound I have forgot I ever heard. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


205 


Moonlight on the Sea 




MOON that silvers all the limpid miles, 

More fair and soft than lands can ever know'; 
Blue waves that lift their lily crests of snow 
Toward quiet stars that kiss them with their smiles; 
A vision purged of all land-stains, all guiles, 

All hate and greed, all pain, all sinning’s woe; 

A world that sleeps and, sleeping, dreams and so 
Doth seem to smile at what it dreams of, w'hiles 
The mothering heavens loving vigil keep 
And brood above its cradle. Vestal fires 
That glow on mighty altars in the vast, 

Far void of Night are shining o’er the deep 
Like slumber-lamps. And on the soul that tires 
And faints, falls all God’s mercy-peace at last 


206 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Higher Call 


X KNOW not whether it is love or hate 
I have for cities. By the sea, among 
The pines, upon my mother Nature’s 
breast, 

Her arms around me, far away from men, 
Surrounded by the flowers, I hate the din, 

The brawl and strife, the sham, the clutching 
greed 

The squalor and the ugliness of towns. 

Their poor attempts at Nature but repel. 

In park and monument and stately pile 
I see the nails that men have driven, smell 
The paint that gilds their little wood and stone. 
The music that I hear is discords all 
Beside the murmur of the leaves, the song 
Of tides and canon zephyrs. What is Art 
But daubs of ochre set against the hues 
Of spangled hills, the blue of violets, 

The purple haze my very soul doth love? 

What fane that men have reared is beautiful 
Compared with all the temples of the peaks? 

What man-made thing or human cunning hath 
The fairness of God's handiwork? Man apes 
The rose and calls it Art if he but catch 
The dullest tint. He steals one mimicked strain 
From bird and bough and field and wave, from 
storm 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


207 


And wind and whispering eves and dawns and calls 
His piping Song! He raises stone on stone 
With fretted dome and painted pinnacle 
And calls them palaces—And then he hates 
And strives and battles with his kind and kills 
His brother with a cold neglect, and laughs 
While many weep, carouses while they starve, 

And flaunts his mansions in the tear-stained face 
Of Poverty, devouring weakness in the pride 
Of strength and feeding on the need of them 
That groan in wretchedness—And this is Towns! 

Yet can the love of all Thy higher things 
Be selfishness, oh God ? Nay, when I feel 
The sweep of pinions round me in the stir 
Of all my spirit’s best, accusing me, 

And when my finer moments come, the cry 
Of cities breaks upon my heart, its tears 
Are on my cheek. I hear the Higher Voice 
And feel Thy hand upon my shoulder, Lord. 

Tis then I know that sometimes love may be 
Not only selfishness but cowardice; 

A duty shirked, a great high summoning 
Of bugles put aside; a battle fought 
Without me, lost because I lolled; a crown 
Unworn; a prize unshared; a life half lived. 

Tis then I know the cheering word I left 
Unsaid, had raised me to a nobler height 
Than all Thy peaks, oh God. The helping hand 
Had reached beneath Thy deepest oceans. Yea, 
A gentle deed had been as sweet as all 
Thy fragrances. Tis then my high desire 


208 SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 

Doth feel the pricking of the new-born wings 
That flutter outward toward the calling world. 

Tis then I start up guilty from my dream 
Of beauty, shamed by what I could have done. 
Tis then my spirit cries: “To arms! The ranks 
Need yet one more! Tis then I answer: 
“Here!” 

Tis then I man the life-boats of my soul 
And with a nobler thrill than selfish days 
Upon the beach can give, I haste to launch 
The bark of rescue for the great despair. 

At Thine accounting, Lord, when Thou, mav 
hap, 

Demandest why a cry of need feel on 
Mine ears unheeded, shall I say to Thee 
That I was listening to Thy seas, heard but 
The song of birds? And when Thou askest me 
Why no sustaining grasp of mine did lift 
A falling brother, shall 1 show my hands 
Were full of flowers ? And when one drifting soul 
Hath sunk beneath the waves of want and I 
Had seen him not, shall I then weakly say 
That I was idling through Thy meadows, walked 
Some sweet, uncaring way among Thy hills; 

Or gazing on Thy heavens saw no hand 
Upraised to me for pity? 

Nay, nay, nay, 

I cannot, dare not, answer that! I seek 

Thee, God, in all Thy works. But Thou art found 

Where Thou art needed most. I hearken for 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


209 


Thy voice in tree and tide, but I shall hear 
Thee calling in a prayer for help. I love 
To see Thy face in stream and field, but I 
Shall find it shining in the garret, too. 
Perchance Thy highest things are lowlier 
Than what I call Thine humble. Thou, oh God, 
Art everywhere; in flower and squalid street, 

In mountain and in mart; in needled pine 
And falling tear; in hymns of dawn and cry 
Of pain; in seas and slums; in castled crag 
And sighs; in daisies and in tenements. 




210 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Sea Children 


i^sHE sea has seemed a radiant realm of light, 

J The wave-crests children frolicking at play 
In opalescent meadows. Then away 
On far horizon hills I’ve watched the night 
O’ertake them; and I’ve heard them, wan and white. 
Sob lost and sore affrighted, as I lay 
High in a moonlit prow, for mother-day 
To take them home And I have seen her, dight 
In all the robes the sunshine’s golden loom 
Hath woven, come and still the night’s alarms; 

And I have seen each wave-child hushed to rest 
As, fleeing from the ogre clutch of gloom, 

It leaped into the morning's splendid arms 
And broke in happy whiteness on her breast. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


211 


My Soul Doth Grow in Thee 

X PLUCKED a cactus from its native slope; 
Ah, how it clung, wih dry, reluctant roots, 
To rock and clod, as tho' the hard red earth 
Were fertile loam and blinding sun and lone 
Hot mountain heights a cool retreat. No vain 
Exotic blooms so haughty in its proud 
Rich jardiniere, carved in fantastic form, 

As did my cactus 'mid the starving clods. 

And far I bore it from the things it loved. 

I could not take its mellowing sun, its soft 
White winter sheet or comrade growths; 

I could but take of canon and of peak 
One little handful of its mother soil. 

But under other suns it has not drooped ; 

It blithely grows as once amid the stones 
Of Manitou. For deep its clinging roots 
Are planted in the earth that is its home. 

So would my soul, if torn from all but thee, 
Transplanted to a clime where never breath 
Of homeland came adown the breeze, grow firm, 
Contented if its roots were fast in love, 

Its native and sustaining soil. It dies 
If torn from that, though planted in all else 
It wants. Thou art its sun and rain and field, 
Its peak, its canon and its pine. Thou art 
Its home, its hope, its life, its boundless all. 


























JBlacJk Key Etudes 















































SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


21S 


De Lawd’ll See Yo’ Froo 


OMETIMES de sky got lots o’ gray 
An’ mighty little blue; 

But jes’ yo’ keep a-peggin* ’way, 

De Lawd’ll see yo’ froo. 

Yo’ keep a-peggin’ ’way, 

Dass all yo’ got to do; 

Jes' do yo’ duty day by day, 

Be suah yo’ don’ fuhgit to pray, 

De Lawd’ll see yo’ froo. 


Ah went to Him de othah day 
An’ ast Him what to do; 

He say: “Yo’ keep a-peggin' 'way 
“An* Ah will see yo’ froo. ” 
Yo’ keep a-peggin’ 'way 

An’ jes’ be good an’ true; 

Be suah yo’ don’ fuhgit to pray; 
Jes’ yo’ keep a-peggin’ 'way, 

De Lawd'll see yo’ froo. 


216 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Mah Littles’ 


a 


H wondah ef it’s wrong aw right 
To love one mo’n de res’; 

De one yo’ sing to sleep at night 
An’ cuddle on yo’ breas’, 

Yo’ littles.’ 


Ah knowed dat some day some'd go; 

Ah couldn’ keep ’em all. 

But Gawd He been so good befo’ 

Ah nevah thought He’d call 
De Littles.’ 


He knowed mah spirit would be tohn; 

He knowed mah heaht would break; 
’Cose maybe so He needed one, 

But wha’ made Him take 
Mah littles’ ? 

Li’ 1 Abe, dat use to stan’ an’ grin 
When Ah’d come in de do’; 

An’ grab de bubbles standin’ in 
De washtub on de flo,' 

Mah littles.’ 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


217 


But mebbe Li’l Abe went fust 
Kase Ah’s a-goin nex ; 

An’ he’d a-needed me de wust— 
Mebbe dat’s why He takes 
De littles.’ 



218 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Wen De Fishes Quits A-Nibblin’ 


(D 


( EN yo’ waits all aftahnoon 
An’ de fishes dey jes’ play, 

Yo' might as well be goin' way 
An' a-goin’ mighty soon. 

Wen de fishs quits a-nibblin’ 

Yo’ strike out. 

Haint no use a-quibblin’; 

Wen de fishes quits a-nibblin’, 

Yo’ hike out. 


Haint no use spit on yo' bait, 

An’ wish dat dey would bite. 
Wen it's a-gittin’ night 
Yo’se wastin’ time to wait. 

Wen de fishes quits a-nibblin’ 

Yo’ strike out. 

Haint no use a-dribblin’; 

Wen de fishes quits a-nibblin’ 

Yo’ hike out. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


219 


De Lawd’s Wuhk 

(Note—This bit of verse has been “going the rounds” for twenty 
years. On several recent occasions it has been printed in the form 
of a version, not in negro dialect, but attributed to Paul Laurence 
Dunbar, the famous negro poet. As a matter of possible interest 1 
append to my own original verse the version erroneously credited to 
Dunbar.) 


O E Lawd He hed a job 
But Ah'd so much to do, 
Ah ast Him git somebody else 
Aw wait till Ah got froo'. 
Ah do’ know how de Lawd come 
But He seemed to git along; 
But Ah felt kinda sneakin' like, 
Kase Ah knowed Ah’d done 


fo’ me, 


out, 


Him wrong. 


One day Ah need de Lawd mahse’f, 
An' need Him right away; 

He nevah answered me at all 
But Ah could heah Him say, 
Way down in mah accusin’ heaht: 

“Ah’s got so much to do 
Yo' bettah git somebody else, 

Aw wait till Ah gits froo.’’ 


Now wen de Lawd He hev a job 
Ah nevah tries to shuhk; 

Ah draps whatevah Ah’s on han’ 

An’ does de good Lawd’s wuhk. 
Mah own affaihs kin run along 
Aw wait till Ah gits froo; 
Nobody else kin do de job 
De Lawd lay out fo’ you. 


220 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


The Lord Had a Job For Me 

This is the “Dunbar version." 


© 


HE Lord had a job for me, but I had 
so much to do; 

I said “You get somebody else, or wait 
till I get th’oo.’’ 

I don’t know how the Lord came out, 
though He seemed to get along, 

But I felt kind o’ sneakin’ like, for I 
knowed I’d done Him wrong. 


One day I needed the Lord myself— 
needed Him right away, 

And He didn’t seem to answer me, but I 
could hear Him say 

Down in my accusin’ heart, “Niggah, I 
got too much to do, 

You get somebody else, or wait till I 
get th’oo.” 


So now, when the Lord has a job for me, 

I never tries to shirk; 

I drops whatever I has on hand, and does 
the Good Lord’s work. 

And my affairs can run along, or wait 
till I get th’oo, 

For nobody else can do the job that 
God’s marked out for you. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


221 


Roastin’ Ears an’ Hoecakes 


9 


O’ may talk about yo’ chicken, 
_ ’ Yo’ ’possum an’ yo’ ham; 

Yo’ may talk about a-pickin’ 

Yo’ pohk chops an’ yo’ lamb; 
But, honey, day ain’t nothin’ 

Dis niggah evah tried 
Aw dat he lub so deah, 

As a great, big, fat, buttahed 
Sweet-cohn roastin' eah, 

Wid a hoecake on de side. 


Yo’ may tout yo’ watahmelon, 

Yo’ hock an’ cabbage stew; 

Yo’ may jes’ keep on a-tellin’ 

An’ w’en yo’ has got froo, 
Ah’se tellin; yo’ dey’s nothin’ 

Dis niggah evah tried 
Aw dat he lub so deah, 

Like a great, big, fat, buttahed 
Sweet-cohn roastin’ eah, 

Wid a hoecake on de side. 


Yo’ chitlin’s dey ain’t in it, 

An’ yo’ redhots kaint compete, 
Not fo’ a single minute, 

Wen de cohn am young an’ sweet, 
An’ so Ah say dey’s nothin’ 

Dis niggah evah tried 
Aw dat he lub so deah, 

As a great, big, fat, buttahed 
Sweet-cohn roastin’ eah, 

Wid a hoecake on de side. 


222 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Li’l Lincoln 


i¥^EN de pinewood’s brightly burnin’ 

\jL/ An’ de hoecake's jes’ a-turnin’; 

Wen Mandy’s kinda restin’, an' Ah’s a-sittin' by 
huh; 

Wen de coffee pot’s a-steamin’ 

Ah loves to fall a-dreamin’ 

An’ watch a pickaninny Ah sees playin’ in de hah. 


Wen Ah reaches out to tech him 
He think Ah wants to ketch him 
An’ he run behind de cohnah of de bigges' piece o’ flame; 
Like anothah li’l niggah 
Dat were hahdly any biggah 
Use to play aroun' de cabin, an’ Ah knows dey is de 
same. 


Mandy use to staht a-grumblin’; 

Say Ah scaid huh wid mah mumblin’, 

An' say dat Ah were hoodooed aw sho’ly were a liah; 
Well, mebbe Ah were dozin,’ 

But don’t yo’ supposin’ 

Ah knows dat li'l niggah Ah sees playin’ in de fiah? 

An’ onct wen we wus sittin’ 

In de dahk an’ she were knittin’ 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


223 


Ah woke up all a-sudden frum a sho’ ’nuff nap; 

An’ dere she were a-rockin' 

An’ a-talkin’ to de stockin’ 

Jes’ like ouah li’l Lincoln were a-layin’ in huh lap. 

An’ wen she stop a-weepin’ 

She say he come a-creepin’ 

Out frum de glowin' embahs an' a-stooda right by huh; 
An’ now she nevah doubt it, 

An’ we often talks about it, 

While we watches li ’l Lincoln a-playin’ in de fiah. 




224 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Dey’s Only Two o’ Us 


'OMEHOW it seem dat we has got 
Off de track, Mandy; 

Ah’se mos’ to blame as like as not— 
Le’s git back, Mandy. 

De way is hahd enough to go; 

De row is hahd enough to hoe; 

Kase we’s black, Mandy; 

Le’s let de res’ hate, ef dey mus’; 

De world is full of othah folks, 
But dey’s only two o’ us! 


We stahted right, yo’ know yo’sef, 

Yo’ ’membahs, Mandy; 

De fiah’s out an’ all dat s lef 
Is embahs, Mandy. 

De June is pas’ wen dey was wahm; 
We needs deir ’tection frum de stahm; 

Decembah’s, Mandy. 

Le’s make ’em glow agin—we mus’! 

De world is full of othah folks— 
But dey’s only two o’ us. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


205 


Wen De Hook Kotch in a Tree 


i¥^EN de sky’s a little cloudy 
vjy An’ de fish seem sayin’ “howdy!” 

As dey spoht an’ play in glee; 

Ah'11 low dey’s nothin’ saddah 
Aw to make a fellah maddah 

Dan to hab yo’ hook kotch in a tree. 
But tain’t no use to cuss; 

Jes’ make it wuss an’ wuss, 

As fuh as Ah kin see. 

Jes’ has to keep on wuhkin’; 

Kase dey ain’t no use a-juhkin,’ 

Wen yo’ hook kotch in a tree. 


We’s offen up agin it, 

Jes’ at de crit’cal minute 

An’ fin’ dat Fate are bigger’n we; 
But de accident will happen 
An’ dey ain’t no use a-scrappin’ 

Kase de hook kotch in a tree. 
Taint no use to fuss— 

Jes’ makes it wuss an’ wuss, 

As fuh as Ah kin see; 

Jes’ smile an’ keep on wuhkin’; 

Kase dey ain’t no use a-juhkin' 

Wen Life’s hook kotch in a tree. 


226 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


An Ethiopian Rubaiyat 


a 


WATAH melon undaneath a tree, 

Mah banjo an’ mah Ruby Ann Marie, 
A-keepin’ time to some camp-meetin’ tune 
Dass plenty Kingdom Come enuff fo’ me. 


An’ ef it come to whur Ah had to show 
Mah han,' Ah’d let de watahmelon go; 

An’ ev>y day’d be get-religion time, 
Ef Ah could only count on gittin’ yo'. 

Yo' needn't poun' de washbo’d fo' de rent; 
Ah’11 tote de hod an’ give yo’ every cent, 
An' ef yo’ll jes be kind-a savin’ like, 
Ah’11 nevah ast yo,' honey, whur it went. 


Love sho’ly do regeneration men. 

Kase sence Ah’s had yo’ fo’ mah bestes’ fren’, 

Ah aint de ornery coon Ah use to be. 

Et seem as tho’ Ah’s jes’ been bohn agen. 

Ah knows dat wen Ah met yo’, Ruby Ann, 

Ah’d got as low as any niggah can, 

An’ keep frum wearin’ stripes—a-shootin 
craps 

An’ punishin’ de booze to beat de ban’. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


227 


Ah even use to mooch mah cigarette; 

An’ wen a niggah git so dat he set 

Aroun' a-wishin' fo' de makins, Lawd! 

He don’ amount to very much, yo’ bet. 

But now et seems mah sperrit took a brace 
An’ kinda shave itse’f an' wash its face 

An' all de world are like a Sunday school, 
Kase Love’s half-brothah to Redeemin’ Grace. 

An' grace kin wuhk on black folks same as white 
Aw yellow. Wen it’s wuhkin' in de light 

It haint got time to stop an’ look at skins 
An' every cullah is de same at night. 

De good Lawd jes’ about like men, Ah find; 

Yo’ nevah jedge a melon by de rind; 

So Gawd jes' plunk an’ ef yo' soun' all right 
Inside, He love yo,’ kase He’s cullah-blind. 

He made a li’l bobble wen He planned 
De races an’ He let the black folks stand 
Out in de sun, dass all; but in His eyes 
A decent nigga’n’s heaht ain't even tanned. 


228 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Whur’s De Sense ? 


{■SOMETIMES de hook are baited 
Wid a gleam; 

If we had only waited— 

Jes’ a dream. 

We feel de line a-tighten 

An,’ like de suckahs dat we air, 

We jes’ keep on a-bitin’ 

Wen we sees de hook are bare. 

Dey’s some excuse fer snappin’ 

At de worms; 

But wen we’s caught a-nappin’ 

How we squirms! 

Dey may be sense in lightin’ 

On a fly dat seem so fair; 

But whur’s de sense o’ bitin’ 

Wen yo’ see de hook are bare? 

Den if dey's nothin’ in it, 

Cut it out! 

Don’ waste a single minute; 

Right about! 

Dey may be a chance o’ fightin’ 

De angler’s baited snare; 

But whur’s de sense o’ bitin’ 

Wen yo’ sees de hook are bare? 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


2i28 


Twixt De Fish Hook an’ De Pan 


S O’ feels yo’ line a-juhkin’ 

An’ yo’ heaht begin to jump; 
Yo’ eyes bug out—and den yo’ cuss; 

It only were a stump! 

Yo’ almos’ felt dat crappie 
A-flappin’ in yo’ han’ ; 

But dey’s many a slip betwixt 
De fish hook an’ de pan. 


Yo’ll fin’ in life dat dis is 
De berry safes’ rule; 

Don’t yo’ begin to eat yo’ fish 

While dey’s swimmin’ in de pool; 
An’ don’ yo’ smell ’em fryin’ 

Befo’ yo’ see ’em lan’; 

Kase dey’s many slip betwixt 
De fish hook an’ de pan. 



230 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Mighty Per’lous 


Q OW mebbe yo’ won’t listen, son, 

An’ mebbe so yo’ will. 

Dey’s jes’ one way de watah run 
An’ dat am down de hill. 

Dat’s whur you’se aheadin,’ son, 

Ah’s talkin’ fo’ yo' good! 

Yo’d bettah stop—Ah wisht yo’ would! 
Kase de way’s a per’lous one, 

Yas, it sho’ly per’lous, son; 

Mighty per’lous! 


Dey’s rocks ahead dat yo’ kaint know, 

An’ mebbe so yo’ kin. 

Ah’s been along dat road befo’ 

An’ yo’ jes’ stahtin’ in. 

De path’s a steep an’ slip’ry one— 

Ah’s talkin’ fo yo’ good! 

Yo’d bettah stop—Ah wisht yo’ would 
Yo’ way is sho’ly per’lous, son; 

Yas, yo’ way’s a per’lous one; 

Mighty per’lous! 


Hit’s hahdah all de time to stop 
An’ yo’ will find it so; 

Looks mighty nice up at de top; 
Yo’ always thinks yo’ know. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


231 


Bes’ time to quit is ’fo’ yo’ staht; 

Jes’ kindah ease de ol’ man’s heaht; 

So stop right now—wisht yo’ would; 
Befo’ yo’ got too fur begun. 

Kase de way’s a per’lous one, 

A mighty per’lous one; 

It’s mighty per’lous, son, 

Mighty per’lous! 




232 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Sonnets from the Ethiopian 


I 

S H knows where dey’s a nobby little suit 

O’ rooms ’bout 10 by 12, an’ whur you’ll fin’ 

De winders shaded wid a speckled blin’ 

An’ whur a coon de neighbors calls Miss Lute 
Does washin’ every day an’ scrubs to boot, 

Wen washin's slack. Dat’s me. Go down de 
line; 

Dey’ll tell yo’ Ah is honest an’ Ah min’ 

Mah business strickly an’ Ah nevah shoot 
Mah mouf off ’cross de hall aw down de stair. 

But, honey, Ah is lonesome wen de night 
Come on an’ dey aint nothin’ Ah kin do. 

An’ wen Ah sets down in mah rockin’ chair 
Ah wishes dey were some one dat Ah might 
Jes’ talk to—an’ Ah wishes it were yo’. 

II 

Dey’s jes’ one rockah whur dey should be two. 

Dey’s room a-plenty in mah fryin’ pan 
Fo’ mo’ pohk chops. But now dey ain’t no man 
To cook ’em fo’. As soon as Ah seen yo’ 

Ah says: “Ah wishes Ah could make de stew 

Dat darkey eat.’’ Mah heaht jes’ seem to stan’ 
Right still. Den, wen Ah put mah tremblin’ han’ 



233 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 

Down on it, Ah could feel it beat all thro’ 

Me an’ it seem to be jes’ like a do' 

Yo’ knocked at till Ah had to let yo’ in. 

De only rent yo' evah needs to pay 

Is do de right thing by me, an' Ah know 
Yo’ will. At least Ah hopes so, kase Ah’s been 
A-wantin’ some one like yo’, anyway. 

III 

De fuss time dat Ah seen yo' pass de do' 

Ah knowed dat it were sho’ly off wid me. 

No othah darkey dat Ah ever see 
Could make me set mah washtub on de flo’ 

An’ git to thinkin' of de folks dat go 

To chu’ch an' make me kinda want to be 
A little bettah an’ to wish dat we 
Might git acquainted an’ be somethin' mo’ 

Dan frens. Ah nevah will fo’git dat day. 

Ah don' know why; Ah jes’ commence to hum 
A ol’ hymn-tune Ah hadn' sung fo’ yeahs. 

An’ somethin', wen Ah got about half way 
Down de chorus made a swaller come 
Into mah throat—an,' honey, it were teahs. 

IV 

Et seem to me de everlastin' scrub 

Frum mohnin’ clean till dahk would be as light 
As playin’ music ef Ah knowed at night 
Wen yo’d come home yo’d empty out a tub 
Aw two; an’ wen yo’d fin’ yo’ evenin' grub 
All ready, yo’ would, fo’ yo’ et a bite, 

Jes’ kiss me, honey, mebbe like de white 


234 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Folks does. An’ den yo’d he’p me wen Ah rub 
De heavies’ pieces ’fo’ we went to bed, 

Jes’ kase yo’ knowed mah back were kinda lame. 

A woman’s dreamin,’ sometime, while she soaks 
De clo’s, no mattah ef her achin’ head 
Are kinky; an’ her heaht git empty, same 
As tho' her face were white as othah folks. 

V 

But don’ yo’ think dat Ah jes’ wants to take 
Yo’ fo’ to raise. Mah hands is full enough 
Suppohtin' jes’ mahse'f. Et’s plenty tough 
A job to go out wuhkin,' stew an’ bake 
An’ rustle fer de rent, an’ sirloin steak 

Fer Sunday, widout pushin’ half de stuff 
Down any lazy coon. Don’ think dat Ah is rough. 
Ah's willin’ fo’ to do mah paht an’ make 
De man dat gits me mighty glad he foun’ 

Me. But he must expec’ to do what’s right. 

Ah’11 nevah make no eyes at othah men, 

An’ Ah wont stan’ fo’ any shinin’ roun’ 

Mah man. Ah jes’ expec’s dat we will fight 
Life’s battle side by side de bes’ we can. 

VI 

Ah wouldn' be no niggah’s candy pill 

An’ wuhk while he’s asleep. He couldn’ snooze 
While Ah were washin,’ ner he couldn’ booze 
On mah scrub money; an’ he couldn’ fill 
Hisse'f wid chitlin’s while Ah paid de bill 

A-chorin’ roun. He’d sho’ly haf to choose 
Twixt shoot in’ craps an’ shovin' of his shoes 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


235 


Beneath mah table. Kase Ah nevah will 
Be no coon’s baby. Ah kin easy scare 
Me up a fellah dat will shoot de can 
As long as Ah will keep him roun’ de place. 

Ah wants a man dat ain’t afraid to wear 
A hickr’y shirt an’ ovahalls—a man 
Dat’s glad to look a job right in de face. 

VII 

Ah wants to show de world a dahky long 

Fo’ somethin’ highah dan a great big pile 
O’ clo’s. Ah wants to see a lovin’ smile 
Upon a husban’s face, an’ sing a song 
Wen he's away at wuhk; an’ feel his strong 

Ahms ’roun' me wen he come back home; an’ while 
Ah sets de table in mah bestes’ style 
Ah wants to heah him ask if things went wrong 
Aw right; Ah wants to tell him everything 
Dat happen ’roun’ de house. An’ mebbe soon 
De good Lawd in His tendah mercy might 

Send us some little ones. Ah knows He bring 
His blessin’s to de white folks an’ de coon 
An’ nevah care ef dey is black aw white. 





Songs in Prose 









SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


239 


The Blossoming Cross 


longed for the green fields. 

The brick walls of the city were hateful bars, for 
they shut her out from the violets and the blue hills. 

The noises of the street were unutterable discords, 
and she loved the harmonies of the brooks, the symphony 
of the boughs and bees, the melody of leaves. 

She prayed from the hand of Life not that which 
gladdens women’s hearts, but only and always for the 
great gift of the birds, the mighty canvases of the 
Autumn and the Spring and the still, small Nature- 
voice. 

The glare of the pavement made her life hot and her 
heart tired and she longed for the peace that cometh into 
the hearts of men beyond the city’s walls. She prayed 
to Life to open the gates and let her forth where the lark 
sang and the meadows were dotted with daisies and 
where she saw the wide waters break against the sky- 
cliffs. 

And Life said to her: “I will send one who will 
point out the way to the flowers and the blue hills.” 

And one came to her who said: “Life sent me- 
Let us go to the violets.” 

And her name was Duty. 

And the woman trembled when she heard it. 

And they came to a place where the brick walls 
were the highest and the pavement was the hottest; and 


240 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


the woman’s guide pointed to them— and the blue hills 
were behind her. 

“Thy way lieth there for yet awhile,” she said; 
and it seemed to the woman that her face was very stern 
and that there was no pity in her voice. 

But there was no turning aside from the path that 
was pointed out; and as the days passed the way became 
smoother and the stones grew softer and the woman’s 
heart was cool and sweet. The grateful tears of those 
whose burden she bore fell upon her face like dew and the 
sight of the hearts gladdened by her fidelity shut out 
the blue maze of the mountains and the green vistas of 
the fields. 

And the face of her companion, Duty, became fair 
in her sight and a soft, sweet light shone upon it 
she had never seen before; and she beat her soul no 
longer against the red brick bars. 

“Thy way is fair, oh Duty, because it is thy way.” 
said the woman. “Whither thou leadest I will go. 
Thy burden shall be my burden and thy cross my 
cross.” 

And Duty kissed her for the first time; and the 
woman looked at the cross she had borne unmurmuring 
so long. 

And behold, it was covered with violets. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


241 


The Ideal of the Unkissed Face 


m an shall kiss my face,” she said, “saving 

\—§ him who shall one day—Love’s day—God’s 
day—make whole and perfect all my life.” 

She was not a prude. She was a woman with an 
ideal and close to her heart she held it like the beautiful 
thing it was. 

There were those who touched her hand and upon 
their spirits fell the restfulness of her handclasp. 

There were those who looked into her eyes and were 
soothed and softened by the great serenity that spoke 
peace to the troubled waters of their lives, the serenity 
of the mountains and the sea, the calmness of the 
twilight and the dawn, the great faith of the violet. 

All evil shrunk abashed from the light that shone 
upon her face and all lightness died upon the lips of 
him who was privileged to touch her hand. 

With undrooping gaze she looked into the eyes of 
dear, dear friends and gently her handclasp lingered. 
She gave freely of a generous reserve, but with the 
uncontaminable purity of a great soul and the unfalter¬ 
ing fidelity of a high ideal she saved the last sweet gift 
for him. 

“It will mean all the world,” she said simply, “and 
all is too little for him. I shall wait until he comes and 
then I shall hold my unkissed face up to him and look 



242 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


into his eyes and say: ‘No man hath ever taken aught 
that belongeth unto thee. I have rendered unto 
Friendship the things that are Friendship’s. Take now 
the thing that is thine.”’ 

He came. And the glory of her ideal shone upon her 
sweet, glad face as she told him—told him how through 
all the years she had kept the vestal fires burning on 
the altars of her soul; told him how loyal she had been; 
how she had put all lightness from her and had put 
away the things the world called sweet. She showed 
him the hoardings of her womanhood, the savings of her 
faithfulness, the dowry of her utter woman’s modesty. 

Then she waited for the recompense of his approval, 
the requital of his tears of humbleness. 

But he was a man of the world and she knew it not. 
The women he had known were not like her. He had 
never stood at the threshold of a shrine so white as that 
and his knees were strangers to such a worship. 

At first he smiled, doubting; doubting that the world 
held aught so pure and faithful, so gentle and so sacred. 
Upon his hot cheek he felt for an instant the breath of 
something solemn and beautiful and holy; on his gross 
ear there fell the far, faint music of a choir, up there 
among the high, sweet, better things. 

But he was a man of the world and when he did 
believe, he laughed. In his black heart he called her a 
fool. 

And her dream died. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


243 


The Hanging 


n E was a human being—a negro. In an hour of mad 
frenzy, whipped on by the lash of his brutish 
passions, he had murdered his mistress. As a tiger might 
have torn his prey in the jungle, this man had slashed a 
woman to death with his reeking knife, the beast-claw 
and fang of his human jungle life. 

And the law had decreed that he must die; that his 
own life would balance the scales wherein are weighed 
the deeds of men. Something called Society, some 
inexorable, bloody, rapacious Mosaic requital, had said 
that this man had forfeited the right to breathe the air 
and feel the glory of the sunshine. 

His victim could not be brought back again. But 
somehow this Nemesis called Society had figured that 
matters would be evened up by strangling her murderer 
to death; that Death would atone for Life; that the 
black cap would hide the marks of the crimson knife; 
that the scales of Justice would better balance when 
hung from the hangman’s noose. 

And there he stood upon the scaffold, the same upon 
which his father had died before him. About him 
surged a throng of ribald men, as the Roman mob might 
have turned down the pitiless thumb in the days of the 
arena. 

Rude jests came muffled thro’ the solemn stillness of 
the death hour and jarred on the murmur of comforting 



244 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


words and low-sung hymn. Thro’ the dirt-stained 
windows the sunlight crept, half frightened and half 
brave, as tho’ to lend the last grace of its fairness to 
the scene. It fell upon the awful coldness of the steel 
cells and touched the gibbet to something like softness. 

Suddenly thro’ a broken pane a sparrow flew, lost 
and frantic in its bewilderment, chirping fearfully, 
knowing nothing of the spectacle which its presence 
made sacrilege. 

Not even then were those hard hearts softened. Not 
even then, as that little harbinger of the springtime 
fluttered about the room, did the wolfishness of those 
cruel natures lose one gleam that flashed in expectant 
eyes. 

He was young. Life was as sweet to him as to any 
in that cruel, grinning throng. The beast-glare had 
long ago died out from his eyes. He was not now the 
tiger that had rent his prey with frightful ferocity. 
But like some unresisting animal that faced shambles 
this man, to whom God had been a far-away name, 
into whose life all the softer things had never come, 
faced life and death and heaven and hell and the grave 
and the great Mystery smiling, repentant, victorious, 
unafraid. 

Then he was slain. 

The black cap was drawn over his face and the sun¬ 
shine was shut out forever. The crowd surged forward 
to get a better view and one, whose heart was blacker 
than the rest, called out, not pityingly, not in solemn 
farewell, but mercilessly, cruelly: “Goodbye, Jim!” 

In an instant what had been a man—a weak, erring, 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


245 


sinful man, a man shut out and away from God and pity 
and human love and Divine grace; a man clothed in all 
the awful dignity of humanity—swayed and tossed and 
writhed in the agony of a shameful death. 

Then it slowly changed from a man to a grisly horror, 
a Thing that turned lifeless and listless with the creak¬ 
ing rope; unsuffering now, while the bloody-hearted mob 
swayed forward to drain to the last red drop the cup 
of shame. The doctors with calm fingers on the pulse 
counted the last faint heart-beats with hardened 
nonchalance. 

Then the Thing was cut down and the mob scrambled 
and fought for pieces of the rope that had choked the life 
out of a human being. Men on the scaffold tossed bits 
of rope to friends in the crowd and with laugh and jest 
the mob dispersed. 

“He died game, didn’t he?” said one, into whose 
benighted heart a dim perception of human courage 
came. 

And so J im Reed died among the tigers and the sun¬ 
shine—and the sparrow twittered with unlightened fear. 


246 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Asters 


i^\HE golden glamor of the spangled October woods; 
V ^v the under-rhythm of the song of bird and bee; the 
hum and croon of leaf and bough and breeze; the filigree 
of sunshine sifted thro’ the branches; the aureole of red 
and yellow, brown and green, that haloes tree and vine 
and casts its shadows on the ground in latticed beds 
of leaves; a dome of blue that arches a perfect day. 
Around, above, beneath, the glory of all the tints and 
tones of color; all the gamuts of sounds without a sob 
or sigh. The mighty canvas of the hills, whereon the 
deft and loving fingers of the Autumn painted wondrous 
forms. The vast cathedral of the woods, whose nave 
and chancel echo the paean of existence. The 
utter hymn of Life and health and happiness and friends 
and all the goodly things that living brings. The 
flinging of the arms up into the sunshine in the dear 
ecstasy of comradeship. Arcadia, a leaf from the story 
of the Golden Age of men bound, by some gentle chance, 
into the book and volume of Today. A day without 
a flaw, without a grief, without a throb or thrill of pain, 
when we lay our heads in Nature’s loving lap and Nature, 
gentle mother, rocks us to rest and peace and a great 
content. 

How sweet just to be alive. How magnificent to 
catch the under-song of silence, the light and glow that 
fall on woods and flowers. Life is good and the world 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


247 


is beautiful and all is pure and tender. Sin and sorrow 
fade to memories; stick and stone are glorified and hearts 
are soft and gentle and thrill with love for all the lower 
life of insect, worm and bird—out there in the free, 
open stillness; out there in God’s first temples, where the 
branches are the diapasons the wind’s soft fingers sound, 
where the sunlight is the sermon and the birds the celeb¬ 
rants; out there where Nature kneels before the altar 
of a gently sloping bank, draped in green and golden 
brown; out there that grand sweet day, just you and I 
and the asters! 






248 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


Castle Spite 


^ INE enemy builded well, with the soft blue hills 
before him and the blue haze of the sea behind. 
The beautiful home he reared had many a spire and 
radiant pinnacle. On the grand old walls the shine of 
the waters fell gently and the gray twilight kissed them 
lovingly as the night came to him. 

The far-off easels of the mountains spread their can¬ 
vases for his delight. The daisy-sprinkled meadows 
were his gardens. The murmur of grand old trees was 
his goodnight and the laugh of fountains his lullaby. 
Stretching groves and flowered paths rested and fed his 
eyes. But most of all he loved the blue hills. 

All fair and gracious, soft and tender, things were his 
and I hated him for them. For he was my enemy. 

As I gazed upon the beauty of his domain my heart 
seethed and boiled with the malice of it shatred. For me 
there was no splendor in the noon, no fragrance in the 
fountains, no sweetness in the flowers, no majesty in the 
sea and no glory in the stars. 

All this was his and I longed to poison all the fairness 
of the things I knew he loved. I longed to shut out 
the mountains with hateful sights and to blot out the 
beauty of the hills and the dawn with ugly things. 

And so between the fair blue hills and mine enemy I 
raised my Castle Spite; that whenever he looked upon 
aught that was fair or sweet he would see it and know 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


249 


how undyingly I hated him; how my very heart was 
builded into each stone and gable, each grisly minaret, 
each grinning pinnacle. 

I beggared all the ingenuity of devils and all the 
imagination of fiends to choose all that was hateful and 
sardonic, all that was leering and frightful, all that was 
shameful and hideous. 

What gruesome masks were carved above the por¬ 
tals ! What dragons, griffins and unclean monsters spat 
their stony venom from the threshold. Laughing, 
leering demons sported and spread their slimy length 
of granite over and about it all and stretched their 
malice betwixt mine enemy and the goodly things he 
loved. 

Surely, surely, I thought, when he beheld how I 
hated him the sight of my Castle Spite would steal 
away his joy in his fair domain and all its brightness 
would be marred and slimed. 

And when it was all done, when the last hateful 
thing was set in place, I gathered friends about my 
festal board and spread a feast to celebrate my triumph 
over mine enemy. 

All the vineyards of the world were pillaged for costly 
draughts and all the cunning of epicure and gourmand 
loaded the banquet table. High in my seat of gold 
draped with the tapestries of splendid looms, I sat and 
raised my cup in the air and bade my friends drink with 
me confusion to my foe. 

It was a rare and goodly sight and sweeter than any 
draught from sunny vine or mellow, ripening hill¬ 
side was the first taste from my cup of revenge. 


250 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


“Confusion to mine enemy!” I cried. “Drink yet 
more deeply, my friends, for I have confounded him. 
Never shall his eyes see the meadows or the hills 
or the fairness of the sea without reminding him of my 
hate and my victory!” 

And again I raised my goblet for another taste of that 
sweet draught. But it was bitter as Death and I flung 
it from me with a cry. Another cup I seized and raised 
it to my lips; but it was like the wormwood of the grave 
and I hurled it from me. 

My friends stared in fear and amaze; and then they 
fled and I was alone—alone with my hate and my 
boiling heart; alone with myself and a nameless fear; 
alone with all the horrors I had summoned round me— 
alone with naught that was soft or sweet or loving or 
gentle or pitying or fair about me—alone with Hate and 
Hell—and God! 

I felt the fury of madness growing on me. The 
masks and monsters and demons and things of shame 
and ugliness I had created seemed to be alive; and they 
rushed upon me to destroy, like all the Frankensteins of 
Hate. I must look on the face of a human being. I 
must gaze upon my fellowmen or die! 

When the gray dawn came my Castle Spite was the 
sport of flames. Gladly I gave it to their greedy maw. 
Ere the sun rose over those fair, soft hills I was on my 
knees before my enemy, praying that he would forgive 
my hatred or slay me in my shame. 

And as I begged in the stormy wildness of my despair 
his eyes shone calm and great and splendid and pitying 
and tender. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


251 


“ I forgive thee, whatsoever thou hast done, my 
brother,” he said, gently. “But I know not what is 
this thing thou thinkest it has been. Thou hast not 
stolen one fair tint from all these hills of ours, one ray 
from the soft shining of the sun. I was gazing on the 
blue hills. I saw not thy Castle Spite!” 













SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


253 


The Bravest of the Brave 

(Written for the official program of the American Legion Convention 
in Kansas City in 1921.) 


#T%HO were the bravest soldiers of history? 
v|/ Were they the fabled demigods of Homer’s 
Troy? 

Were they the heroic Ten Thousand who marched 
with Xenophon to the sea, or the immortal Three 
Hundred Spartans of Leonidas at Thermopylae, holding 
back the Persian hosts at the Gates of Fire; or were 
they the Athenians at Marathon, scattering the hordes 
of Xerxes, their deathless glory borne to all the corners 
of the earth by the winged feet of Phidippides? 

Were they the legions of imperial Caesar, hurling 
the Germans across the Rhine, to teach the world 2,000 
years later that it could and must be done again, or were 
they the Germans themselves—strange irony of history 
—crushing the Huns of Attila at the Marne, as their 
descendants were overwhelmed centuries later on the 
banks of that same historic stream? 

Were they the rustic bowmen of Harold dying on 
Hastings field to save Saxon England from the conquer¬ 
ing Norman; or were they the English of Edward, break¬ 
ing on the field of Crecy the might of France? 

Were they the Swiss of Winkelried, who took into 
his heroic heart the Austrian spears and making way for 



254 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


liberty died; or were they the Poles of Sobieski and 
Kosciusko, the Greeks of Marco Bozzaris, or the red- 
clad patriots of Garibaldi ? 

Were they the snowy heroes of Gustavus Adolphus, 
wresting freedom from the bloody paws of the Russian 
bear, or the belted barons of Runnymede, wringing from 
the grudging hands of John the Magna Charta? 

Were they the embattled farmers of Lexington and 
Bunker Hill or the soldiers of Washington at Valley 
Forge, marking in its red snows the footprints for 
Liberty to follow in? 

Were they the sailors of John Paul Jones and Perry, 
the gaunt heroes of Mad Anthony Wayne or the Old 
Guard at Waterloo? 

Were they the Light Brigade atBalaklava, “theirs 
not to reason why, theirs not to make reply, theirs but 
to do and die”; or were they the soldiers of Scott and 
Taylor, remembering the Alamo at Cerro Gordo and 
Palo Alto, at Monterey and Chepultapec? 

Were they the blue-clad men of ’61 fighting above 
the clouds of Lookout Mountain with Hooker, standing 
beside the Rock of Chickamauga, battling with Grant 
at Shiloh and the Wilderness, at Cold Harbor and 
Antietam or following Sherman to the sea? 

Were they the gray-clad men of Pickett and 
Wheeler and Gordon and Stonewall Jackson and Lee, 
reaching the pinnacle of human courage at Gettysburg 
when they hurled wave after wave against the stone 
wall at the summit, flinging a bloody foam of Armis- 
tead’s dying men over the top and going down to a 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


255 


defeat that held no shame, because the victors were 
Americans like themselves? 

Were they the sailors of Dewey at Manila bay, the 
soldiers of Lawton and Wood in the forests of Luzon, the 
Black Legion at San Juan or the sailors of Sampson and 
Schley at Santiago? 

Were they the little brown men at Port Arthur and 
Chemulpo or the Spaniards who only the other day died 
on paynim spears in a hopeless fight on the red sands of 
the desert? 

Were they the British at Mons, the French at the 
Marne, the Belgians at the Yser, the Italians at the 
Piave or the Yanks in the Argonne, at Cantigny and 
Seicheprey, at Chateau Thierry and St. Mihiel ? 

Nay, the heroes of every righteous cause set the 
standard of human bravery so high that in the crimson 
mire of war races disappear and flags and uniforms take 
on the universal hue of a cosmic courage that glorifies 
humanity. 

God forbid that, blinded by national pride, any man 
should arrogate to his own country a supremacy of valor 
or say that his comrades were braver than the brave. 

But, standing on that epic height, America can lay 
its fadeless wreaths of praise upon the graves of all who 
died for the cause they believed to be right and can still 
contend that, where all were brave, the annals of history 
record no sublimer heroism than that displayed by the 
boys who went from America’s towns, her factories, fields 
and plains, her wide spaces and her busy marts, crossing 
3,000 miles of deadly waters; braving the perils of sea 
and land and air, baring their breasts to sword and shell; 


256 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


facing gas and bayonet, the waiting trench and the heroic 
charge; fighting to the last gasp, the last breath, yet 
laughing, praying, cursing, singing on, till on a hundred 
fields Christ-like men died again for men, and as the veil 
of the temple of each man’s life was rent in twain the 
shadow of the Ancient Sacrifice fell across the world and 
the very sun in the heavens dimmed to a golden star in 
the service flag of God. 

Fighting thus and dying thus, not on their own soil, 
not defending the sanctity of their own firesides, not 
guarding the periled honor of their own women and 
babes, but to vindicate faith in the pledged and plighted 
word of peoples as of men; to make covenants something 
more than scraps of paper; to make all childhood sacred 
and restore to the universal womanhood its violated 
birthright of unpolluted purity; to make the air and land 
and ocean free; to make the wide streets of the world 
safe for the nations to walk in and the air of the world 
fit to breathe. 

You meet today not to sound the timbrels of your 
own high deeds, but to send forth a bugle call of service to 
the living that shall make the sacrifices of the deathless 
dead offered not in vain. They sleep in many soils in 
the little green tents that are pitched, some in the holy 
western homeland; some in the frozen north; some in the 
hot sands of the east; some in Italy’s sunny south; 
many—ah, how many—over there where the flowers 
are as red as the poppies of France, as white as the fleur 
de lys, as blue as the forget-me-nots of Belgium—that 
trinity of colors sacred to all who love liberty and hate 
ambition’s ruthless greed. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


257 


Only as we who live today, and those who shall live 
in the years to be, consummate that heroic sacrifice by 
dedicating it to truth and right and freedom and 
humanity and civilization and to the one God of all 
races, shall we and they be worthy of those altars of 
valor, wet today with tears and blood. Only then shall 
the crosses in their long white rows be arms that open 
wide to save nations and a world worth salvation. Then 
and only then shall the nation become truly strong 
because it is loyal to the weak; great because it is true 
to every fine ideal and brave because it will fear only to 
do the wrong. 


















< The Autobiography of a Bluebird 






















SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


261 


PROLOGUE 



CE upon a time, before there were any blue¬ 
birds, there was a far-off country. 


And there was a great prince, who loved a beautiful 
girl, and wanted her to be his princess, just like the 
prince in the story books. Only this is true. 

But she loved another and he loved her, just as 
sometimes happens outside the story books. And 
next to each other they loved the flowers and the sun¬ 
shine and all the beautiful things that God had made, 
caring naught for thrones and palaces. Each was royal 
in the other’s sight and each reigned unrivaled in the 
other’s heart. 

The prince was very angry when his love was spurned, 
just as the prince always is in the story; and he banished 
the lover to a land far to the south. And it was the 
time of the year when the leaves fall. The prince 
hoped the girl would forget with absence. But she 
was faithful to the memory of the old days, leal with 
the blue fidelity of the sky and loyal with the long, 
sweet fealty of flowers. 

And one day the lover braved the prince’s anger and 
returned. 

“Better far,” they said, “one day of life and love 
together than unending years apart.” 


262 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


And in rage and despair the prince consulted a 
magician, who said: 

“Since they love the flowers so much, they shall live 
among them always. And since they love the sky so 
well, they shall know no other roof.“ 

And he changed them into birds. 

But because the violets were blue and because the 
sky was blue and because they loved them so, they 
became bluebirds; and every year, when the leaves 
fell, they flew to the southward in memory of the fidelity 
that braved all things. 

And that is how bluebirds came into the world and 
that is why they fly south when the leaves fall. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


263 


THE STORY 


Chapter l 



Vc-nHE first thing that I remember was the warm, 
sweet smell of the springtime. It seemed to call 
me, down there in that hard, round place where all was 
dark and snug. And I think I answered it with a 
trembling little cheep. 

Around, about, above me, I felt the rustle of the 
mother-body that settled softly down upon me; and I 
heard the croon of the mother-voice that cooed and 
quivered with the wondrous joy of motherhood. 

But it seems to me that I had dreamed of the sun¬ 
shine, of swaying branches and nesting notes; of drowsy 
twilights and waking dawns and golden afternoons. 

For when I felt that first sweet thrill of Life, Some¬ 
thing in me fluttered outward to that calling Springtime 
world. And then I pecked away the speckled bars that 
held me in and I came forth—very weak and very ugly, 
very wet and very wabbly; just one of a gangling, 
sprawling, floundering, squawky, hungry little brood. 
But oh, so warm and happy, beneath the proudest 
little mother-bird that ever looked up to the blue sky 
and said: “I have done my part.” 

Our mother did not think we were ugly. What 
mother ever did? She just fluttered and twittered and 
fussed and cooed and cuddled in an ecstasy of achieve- 



264 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


ment—just about like little boys’ and little girls 
mothers, I imagine. And soon we were all dry and 
fluffy and very, very ready for dinner. 

We didn’t know what to make of it when our mother 
flew away from us and didn’t come back. How we 
cheeped and squeaked in an agony of alarm! We 
forgot our hunger in our fear. The sunshine hurt us 
and it was full of dangers. For the shadow of a wing 
that isn’t one’s own mother's brings the heart into one’s 
mouth. That’s the way little birds “see things.’’ And 
when there aren’t any perils that one can see, there is 
that awful desolation. 

I wonder if that is the way little boys and little girls, 
and big boys and big girls, feel, when mother goes- 
a way-and-doesn ’ t-come-back. 

But just as we were squawking our loudest and 
hungriest our mother lit on the edge of our house with 
a big fat worm in her mouth. I am sure that if any 
one of us had swallowed it whole he would have had the 
ne-plus-itis, which is bluebird for what little boys have 
when they go visiting for dinner and have a second 
helping of pie. 

Our wise little mother knew this, so she just pecked 
up the worm into six wriggles, which were the first 
course. Then she flew away again and every time she 
came back it was another course. We had worms and 
grasshoppers and apple grubs and bottleflies—and 
bread crumbs for dessert. 

And then we were hungry all over again. And the 
first day was just about like little boys’ and little girls’ 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


265 


days, I imagine—just nests and opening mouths and 
dinner; and tired, happy twilights and crooning 
motherhood and long, sweet rest, stirred by dreams of 
another day. 

And that is how a bluebird is born. 

CHAPTER II 

The first time I saw Her was one morning when I 
hopped down on the window sill. Have I forgotten to 
tell you that our house was in a tree whose branches 
swept Her window? 

She had a bunch of violets in Her hand. They were 
talking to Her and I wondered if She knew what they 
were saying. For violets and bluebirds and people 
who love them speak the same language. Love is 
understanding and Love speaks bluebird. When She 
kissed the violets and laid them down and ran and got 
some crumbs and scattered them where I could get 
them I knew She could understand me, so I said: 

"I'm very much obliged for the crumbs, I am sure, and 
hope you are as happy this bright Spring morning as I 
am." 

The way I said it was to eat all the crumbs in the 
wiggle of an angle-worm and then fly up on my bough 
and tell Her all about my love story—how Something in 
me seemed to be in tune with all the glory and beauty 
of God's world around me. And how one day I had 
heard a song that seemed different, just a little sweeter 
than I had ever heard before. And how I had answered 
it. And how we were going to build a little nest down 
there beneath Her window, if She didn’t mind. 


266 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


And that’s how a bluebird falls in love. 

She understood every word of it and I understood 
every word of Her reply. How could I help under¬ 
standing Her? She was young and beautiful and there 
was no one beside Her and She was watching the sun¬ 
shine kissing the flowers and the birds mating and all 
Creation raising its love-song to Him who made it. 
There was something lonely and wistful about Her and 
I could see the nest-dream in Her eyes and hear the 
mating call in Her voice as She said: 

“ I wonder if my mate will ever call me, little Blue 
Breast? Are your loves like ours? Is there a bluebird 
in the world for'every calling heart ? Do you sometimes 
think He has heard your voice and find you are mistaken ? 
Do you sometimes hear a call that you cannot answer? 
Do you sometimes sing beside Him on the branches and 
He never knows why the song falters; that it is with the 
very burden of its own sweetness and with the sadness 
of His unhearing? And then, sometimes—ah, some¬ 
times—does He hear and understand and then do you 
both sing full-throated with the joy of Love and 
Living?” 

I tried to tell Her that it was that way in the bluebird 
world and in all worlds. Every day we talked of it 
together when I hopped down on the sill to eat the 
crumbs She always scattered for me. 

And one day I thought She had been answered, for 
Another stood beside Her at the window. He had 
brought Her some violets and I saw Him crush them in 
His impatience at waiting. And once when She held 
out Her hands to the golden outside world and asked 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


267 


Him if it were not beautiful, He did not understand 
Her but turned world-heartedjy away. 

“It was not He, blue one,“ She said to me when He 
was gone. “It was only the voice of the world that I 
heard.” 

Once when I was hopping about in the park I saw 
Her sitting with still Another. But a bluebird knows 
lovers when he sees them. And She did not care. She 
was kind and gentle, as She always was, but there was 
no nesting note in Her voice. She dropped some of the 
violets at Her belt as they rose to go and long after they 
had gone He came back, idling along with trembling 
carelessness, with the feverish nonchalance with which a 
bluebird preens her feathers at mating time, when she 
cannot sing too boldly. He came back and sat down in 
the place where She had sat; and when no one was 
looking He snatched up the flowers She had dropped and 
kissed them with a sob. 

And then one morning there was still Another stand¬ 
ing beside Her at the window. I thought that this 
time She had been heard and heard. He was different 
from the rest. A new gentleness came upon Her when 
She spoke to Him and there was a new sweetness in 
Her voice as She called to me from the open window. 

“He does not understand, little Blue Breast,” She 
whispered sadly one morning. “ I cannot tell him, can 
I?” 

If this were your story, you would have answered that 
nothing is so maidenly as frankness and that Love and 
Happiness are more than false conceptions of modesty. 


268 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


But a bluebird has to write: “Dear Mr.- 

too, sometimes, when her heart is bursting to say 
“Beloved.” She hasn’t even any envelopes, where 
you can say “Sweetheart” in the letter. She has only 
tree-tops out there in the sunshine. And they are just 
postal cards, where everybody can read. And she can’t 
put “Dear Darling” on a postal card any more than 
you. 

She can only sit on and wait on and sing on. And if 
the song falters and the shadows creep around her little 
heart, so much the sadder for the bluebird. That is all. 

I was so happy myself that I wanted everybody else 
in all God’s golden world to be happy, too. It grieved 
me to see Her wings droop and the shadow in Her eyes. 

But one morning She threw high the window and 
held out Her hands to where I was singing on the 
branches. 

"He understands, little Blue Breast!” She cried. 
“He understands! See! See!” 

And then He came and stood beside Her and there 
were tears on both their faces. And He kissed the 
violets He had brought Her and together They scattered 
my daily crumbs. And They were both very, very 
happy. 

She had found Her bluebird! 

CHAPTER III 

So the golden Summer passed and the leaves began to 
fall. For the Gray Days had come. 

It was the last day before I was to fly South that the 
tragedy happened. 



SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


269 


Every morning, through those Spring and Summer 
days, first She and then They together had spread my 
table for me on the window sill. Often and often I had 
seen Them standing there together, talking of the nest 
They were going to build. 

I know just how you do it. You pick out a tree you 
think you will like, only you call it a house; the spot 
that is to be the dearest in all the wide, wide world to 
you. 

Then you carry one by one your twigs and straws and 
wisps of hay and fleck of fleece and bits of dry, dead 
weed. You call them bedsteads and dressers and tables 
and book-cases. But they are only twigs and straws 
which you have chosen with many happy little twitters. 
You choose pretty pictures and books you like and little 
objects of beauty that you cuddle down against in 
comfort and content. 

And She, with deft and loving fingers, makes dainty 
little things, soft and fluffy and blue and gold and pink, 
the brown of Autumn leaves and the red of the Love 
rose; things which soften and sweeten the place where 
you fold your wings and sink with happy sighs to utter 
rest, to the music of a lullaby. 

And that is building a nest. 

All these things went on under my eyes until the 
morning of which I started to twitter—which is blue¬ 
bird for speak. I had hopped down on the window 
sill, just as I had been in the habit of doing. But there 
were no crumbs for me. At first I thought that I had 
got up too early. But I soon saw that everything was 


270 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


going on around me as usual. Then I thought I must 
have got up too late. And then I didn’t know what to 
think. I was too hungry. I was so bewildered that I 
didn’t even fly away after worms and insects. I had 
got out of the habit of eating such things before din¬ 
ner; and it is hard to teach an old bird breakfast worms. 
So I just hopped around disconsolately, pecking at 
yesterday’s crumbs. And somehow they tasted very 
sweet. Yesterday’s crumbs always do. 

Then suddenly She came to the window and sat 
down. But so sad and forlorn and listless was She that 
I hardly knew Her. Surely this was not my She— 
His She—. Our She was sunny and happy and didn’t 
burst into tears when She saw the bluebirds, as this one 
did. Then She ran away and soon She was holding 
her hands out to me and there was a bountiful supply of 
crumbs on the sill. 

“Forgive me, little Blue Breast,’’ she cried. “For¬ 
give me for forgetting you in my unhappiness. That 
was selfish, wasn’t it?’’ 

She said all this in bluebird and I understood Her 
perfectly. 

“Has He gone away?” I asked. “Didn’t He under¬ 
stand, after all? And what about the nest, She—and 
the twigs and the fleck of fleece and the dry, dead weed ? 
And the song you were going to sing - at - crooning - 
time, She?” 

“Yes, He is gone, my blue one," She replied, with a 
sob. “He has gone where you will soon be going, 
among the magnolias and the jasmine and the blue 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


271 


grass and the sweet pines. I want you to take Him 
a message from me, little Blue Breast. Tell Him it 
was all a mistake. Tell Him that I love Him as I love 
my life. Tell him I want Him.” 

I took up a big sweet crumb in my mouth and flew 
up to where my mate was singing. That is bluebird 
for: “Why don’t you tell him yourself, She?” 

“I can't tell Him, can I, Blue One?” She answered. 
“You told me before that I had to sit on and wait on 
and sing on. ‘And if the song falters and the shadows 
creep around the bluebird’s little heart, so much the sad¬ 
der for the bluebird. That is all;’ you said, little Blue 
Breast.” 

The bluebirds can fly to where the Spring lives for¬ 
ever, when the trees brown and the sun grows cheerless 
and the frosts come. But alas for Her; She could only 
suffer on there among the falling leaves and the leaden 
skies, in the snowtime of Her love and gaze at stark, 
bare branches and empty nests. 

What had happened? Why was the mistake made? 
Why did She have to send any message? 

Why does anything ever happen ? Why are any 
mistakes ever made? Why do any messages have to be 
sent? Why does sorrow ever come into the world? 
Why do hearts ever ache or break? And why isn’t 
there some sunny Southland of the soul where every 
weary spirit can go when the leaves fall and the Gray 
Days come ? 

CHAPTER IV 

You may believe this last chapter or not, just as you 
choose. We tell you many things that you would be 


272 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


happier if you believed. If you doubt what I tell 
you, the reflection will be rather upon your faith than 
upon my credibility. 

These are big words for a little bluebird to think. 
What I mean is that you would be happier if you 
would only keep the bluebirds with you after they have 
left you. 

I know She trusted me when I told Her I would give 
Him Her message, for She smiled when I left Her— 
smiled through Her tears, but smiled! And I know He 
never doubted me when I gave it to Him. 

You will argue and reason and figure out that it is 
impossible for one little bluebird to find and pick out 
one man among a whole city full or town full or valley 
full or sunshine full. But let me remind you that when 
you give a message to one, you give it to all the birds 
that makes God’s tree-tops sweet with music. We 
don’t argue and reason and figure out. We have no 
pencil and tablet. We just deliver our message. 

It was one bright, sunny day that I found Him down 
there among the blue grass and the jasimine. I was 
sitting high up in a tree that swept a window just like 
one I knew and loved so well. I was very hungry, for it 
was the first day of my arrival and I hadn’t engaged 
accommodations in advance. A kitten was eating 
his breakfast on the porch and he invited me to share 
it. He said I was very pretty, but I know he only 
meant toothesome. For a cat said that once to a chum 
of mine and she believed him and after that I had to get 
another chum. 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


273 


So when a window opened and a man stretched out 
his hands to me, just like He and She used to do, and 
scattered some crumbs on the sill, I would have been 
very stupid indeed if I hadn’t known Him. 

I just hopped down and gratefully pecked away and 
then I gave Him Her message. You may argue and 
reason and figure out that it was some other He and 
that I was some other bluebird and that I delivered 
somebody else's message and somebody else delivered 
mine. 

But I know better. Doubt, if you will. But I can 
point to a nest that was long, long in the building, but 
was built at last. Not up there among the snow days 
and the falling leaves, but down here in the midst of the 
Spring that lives forever. 

He was wan and sick and feeble and He lay back 
wearily on a bed by the window. And if that wasn't 
Her picture there on the mantel where He could always 
see it, He had one in His heart; and there was a little 
bunch of faded violets tied to it with a ribbon that had 
fallen from Her hair. I can only state hard, cold facts, 
without any sentiment whatever. All that I know is 
that as I ate all my crumbs and delivered my message 
He asked me all about Her. 

"And She did not say, little Blue Breast, that it was 
all my cruel pride that had brought about the great 
mistake? She did not reproach me and She sent me a 
sweet message of forgiveness? You know I love Her, 
Blue One, for you are near to God and He knows it. 
What shall I do, little Blue Breast?” 

What could I advise Him to do but write by the next 
mail and tell Her He had been a fool? I didn’t put it 


274 


SONGS IN SEVEN KEYS 


just that way. I just flew up on the branch and sang 
so madly and merrily in my happiness, in the joy of 
living, of being a part of God’s beautiful world. I told 
Him that the lesson of the birds, the preachment of the 
violets, the sermon of the sea and the sunshine and all 
things that God had made is Love—Love—Love—not 
spite and pride and revenge; not bitterness and heart¬ 
ache. Bluebirds never hate and there is no malice in 
their hearts. 

“That is our message,” I told Him. “Now write as 
I dictate. Write it in bluebird: 

“‘Darling: There are nesting songs all around me, 
sweetheart, for the bluebirds have come and they have 
brought me your message; the message you gave me 
the first time I looked in your eyes. Can* you forgive 
me, beloved? Shall we listen to the nest-song, dearest, 
and never make the old mistake again?’ ” 

I know He wrote it down word for word as I told Him. 
For one morning when I hopped down on the window 
sill She was sitting there beside Him. Her hand was in 
His and They were happy again as in the old, old days. 
When They saw me They stretched out Their hands to 
me. 

“You brought Her to me, little Blue Breast,” He 
said, very tenderly. “I wrote just what you told me 
to.” 

“You sent me to Him, Blue One,” She said, with a 
sweet gladness. “You took Him my message and that 
sent me. And we are going to build our nest after all. 
And there will always be a store of crumbs for you on 
the window sill, where the bees rock on the jasmine and 
the arbutus veils our happiness from the world.” 

And that’s how a bluebird delivers messages. 










































' ■» 




» 

















V 


























































I 

































V 



















































* 




















- 


































* 1 





































* 

. 






Wiun£L2f CONGRESS 


